Category Archives: think

creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, think

Ashes of the Asylum

Even the benevolent breeze
spares the scattered ashes
of what was once an asylum
for flesh and bones trapped
within wandering souls.

They told me in school
that red and green fuses to yellow
but all I can see are the dark ashes,
the remains of the magnificent tree.

The birds cannot rest,
the dogs are dying of heat
and I can’t write my poems,
for I was a patient of that asylum,
it caressed my sanity every evening.

My poems have nowhere to go,
they don’t hide in the branches as they used to,
now they hide within me
and I hide inside them.

Standard
dream, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry, think

Hershey’s

It is the death of light,
no one mourns.

artificial corpses
of plastic and white
reanimate the dead.

vapors of warm air
caress us.

Our souls
have returned back
through their
meaningless voyages.

We lie down, naked.
and entertain the ceiling fan.

Your breasts have a thousand
ways of loving me
yet they lie still,

We are drowned in unseen realities.

I spread Hershey’s all over you,
from lips to wondrous thighs.

I start from lips.
You tremble like a mutilated animal.

I kiss your cleavage.
You tempt me like the morning sun.

I lick your nipples.
You abhor the wait as grasses do for the warm rain.

Minutes grows to hours,
as you take my hands between your legs.

For you turn to God.
the one who abolishes time.
Revering the satanic touch
of the person who once disavowed
the warm body of yours.

Standard
creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, think

Gravity

You rebel as a muse,
untamed and untouched.

for you can make me burn down
my books of poems

as I smile like a sea
which loves rains in autumn.

I shall leave a universe bereft
of my symphony of words
and would dream of creating a million
celestial others, while kissing your eyes.

You deceive the gravity
to fall down in my arms,
and the earth trembles
from the longings of your body

and I am trembling too,
to be honest tonight.

As a soothed wave,
calmed before a tsunami.

A whisper before impending destruction.
A dream of heaven before embracing hell.

Standard
creative-writing, dream, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Poems, Poetry, think

Deja Vu

a multiverse existence,
where realities slip through
the hourglasses of time.

Memory is a sweet drizzle
originating from the clouds of conscience.

An atmosphere made of nostalgia
and we are the floating planet.

The galaxies unknown and untouched,
we bloom and wither in this cataclysm of life

I recollect all this,
from a beautiful dream with eyes open

so was it a deja-vu
or my hands just slipped of the typewriter

Standard
beauty, creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Love, Poems, poetry, think

Peace of Mind

lying on a hammock
in the woods nearby the fireplace.
with a book in my hand
and a dog in the lap.

I decide to look up
at the bluish adobe of gods
which meets
the cataclysmic vegetation
of the sky touching trees.

I sigh a faint prayer,
for it all makes sense now.

I see our treaded existences
floating in the cosmic river
destined to confluence in the sea of divinity.

this raging mind,
the irresistible heart,
and this thirst driven soul
are calmed in the warm
belly of this mystic sea.

We shall be reborn again
as children with a pure heart and soul
on a land far away from shores of reality
where materialism ceased to exist
and peace of mind is felt
even in the markings of the tiny steps
we leave behind.

Standard
beauty, Fiction & Poetry, india, kids, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry, poetry, think

The Tea Stall Warrior

his armor, is a vest with holes,
shabby shorts with a mosaic formed
by the stains of oil,tea, ashes of cigarette and coal

a foul-smelling cloth graces his shoulders
that sweeps the dust from the tables,
coincidentally it comes from the very stars
to which he prays sometimes in night

independence day for him,
is about selling his freedom
and a dozen flags,
a free plate of jalebi,
from the nearby school,
is the only reminiscence of the place
he was once born in,

he lives inside creaking doors,
surrounded by walls
capable of collapsing
by tremors of continuous coughing,

paints his dreams
from the acrylic color box found in a dustbin,
with bare hands on newspapers,
and scrapped sheets

he has no regrets
he might never have,
for he has never seen
the sun of expectations
rise in the morning.

the moon of contentment,
is what he only cares for.

Standard