Insanity is an ignifying Ice for us,
as jaws jabble juices of just japes.
kings born with a knack for kingdoms:
with knights kneeling in front of Kahlua and coke.
Love is lust covered in luscious clothes,
mannerisms minimizes into meticulous miseries
as the necessity to kiss numbs numerous women.
Obscenity today tastes like oozes of opium.
my profane heart loves to preach prosperity:
after the plunders of promiscuous nights.
the real loving people,
the ones who feast on hearts
for years and centuries and
hunt on the smell of affection,
stay away from them.
Avoid them.
For they would make
you feel loving is normal,
it’s necessary.
But it isn’t
the real insane people,
the ones who shapeshift
into volcanoes and waterfall
at a slight change in air flow,
Avoid them.
For they would make
you feel insanity is normal.
it’s necessary
But it isn’t.
the real versions of you,
the ones who you greet in the mirror,
the artist, the erotic and lewd writer\dreamer,
the failed guitarist, the Bukowski in making,
Avoid all of them.
For they would make
you feel failure is normal
It’s necessary.
But it isn’t.
Everybody waits
for love, for the purest snow
in unseen winters.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Voyages set sail for an unfaltering feast of loneliness, everyone is alone and together at the same time on the ship of rust. The amicable hues of humanity are inexorable to survive as the waves turn black taking the ghastly shape of hidden Krakens. A gust of salty wind caresses the hairs of the captain who fears nothing for he is the child of the sea, some say he was born in its warm belly just to be abandoned on the shores. It is one of those few nights when the moon is no longer an instrument of love. A little light sometimes bridges the gap between sanity and death but we often do not notice this.
dark tempting waves hide
behind salty winds of fear,
come out now, die young.
A Haibun is a Tradional Japanese Poetry containing a prose and a haiku. There can be more than one prose and haiku.
I once wrote for others
chaps so full of literature,
they would puke sonnets.
Women with legs
wearing beautiful stockings
looking like Ballads.
But they never read.
They were so full of themselves
and I wasn’t full of myself anywhere,
It took me a year of my life
to realize that
I won’t be full of myself
anytime soon.
You fuckers reading this.
Let me know,
When I’m Done.
come raise your glasses
to this season of defeats,
lets make them a blur.
I remain after the destruction
and deaths.
I am what the end of the wars looks like.
When stale corpses transfix themselves
at the calamities,
I breathe slowly.
I remain at the edge of your loneliness
and suicidal thoughts.
When you look for ways to lessen your screams,
I creep into your void to dissolve your thoughts.
I am the hidden reflection in the mirror, you fail to notice.
I walk slowly.
I remain when your world comes to a standstill
over a pair of her eyes that overfill your voids
with dreams and desire and sometimes spaces
between your shadow and the soul.
I am what you forget when you are in love.
I disappear slowly.
I am the beginning of the world,
I am its end.
I am what you crave as well as fear
on the nights, alone.
I am the Wine that caresses your veins
and eats your liver.
Have enough of me, but carefully.
For, I die with you.
I die slowly.
Writings to Heaven 