What do you do? When you have nothing to. Do you sit by the window, And look out, Look out at the world, Wonder, what it is like to be that bee that hums and hovers over that red rose, Or think about the decisions you made; the path you are walking on; and the people you chose. Are you disturbed when you are alone? Shhh! Come close Close to yourself. Its cozy and comfy and lonely, Better than those who are but are not And those too who want to and cannot. What do you do? When you have nothing to. Do you look into the mirror And embrace the facade, Click yourself and then edit Whilst nature loses its credit. Or do you rather see into your eyes Try to locate the scars on your soul. Is there a want of death lurking about? Hmmm! Shut up. Why to bother with it, Or why to try to grasp its arms, It is on its way to you anyhow. So, you better live and act Before the final bow. What would do you do? If you had something to do. Hold someone's hand and with them stay Or by yourself walk away, Chain yourself with the laws meant to bound Or hustle to change the things around, Sweat and bleed to carve your way, Or would you let go and give away, Dream a reality Or lose yours to a dream, Mediate in silence Or burst out in screams, Try to find what you desire Or would you lose yourself in the world's mire, If you had something to do? Would you hold someone's hand and walk away Or in your solitude forever stay.
One to the head
One said 7 times, the gun was shot,
The other said it pierced him thrice.
Both of them sure, that one was to the head,
And the next moment a human being died.
He was a writer
And a man who expressed,
And showed the World
True colours of a false paradise,
These heathens in a legion’s disguise,
But their reaction, was full of surprise.
For instead of understanding
What he was trying to make them understand,
They blamed him for his religious reprimand.
And summoned him in the court of law,
And that court was swell
And that law was flawed.
But before the law could prove his guilt,
He was condemned of sins and shot,
In the middle of the street,
Against the sun’s glaring heat,
He lost the battle he never fought.
7 bullet shots were shot
Three piereced through him,
But it took just one to the head,
To leave a writer and a human being
In the street, bloodied and dead.
Have no clue about the others,
He has my respect,
For he only said that was true,
Which others could not accept,
And that there is something wrong with the world,
Do you not suspect?
18 men 3 days back died
And they died not for themselves
But for each one amongst the billions of us
Fighting our battle for paradise,
Without one excuse, they gave their lives,
As they been doing so since long
While we sit here
In our comfy abodes
And watch their sacrifice on TV Munching chips and sipping tea,
And then we just forget,
And it’s alright,
We are humans
But not this time,
Because we are humans.
Let’s not those 18 lives,
Pass by us in a daze,
Stop for moment, close your eyes
And try to feel their rage,
Who have lost more than soldiers,
They have lost husbands, and brothers, and sons
Just think about them,
Just do it for once,
And try to feel their sorrow,
Acknowledge their lives,
Respect their deaths.
For they could have done anything else,
Like all of us do,
But they chose to do what they did,
And they did for me and you.
At my behest
At my behest,
Get me a decaying leaf,
Or a new born butterfly,
Life of a dead thief,
Or demise of a woman sly.
Get it to me now, come on
Bring me a broken pencil,
Or may be a coral red,
Get me an unfilmed reel,
Or a flower dead.
Get up, will you now,
Listen! Just bring me a lantern,
Or a half burnt cigarette,
Show me a haunted mansion,
Or may be a mystical amulet?
Don’t be so rude to me,
Just bring me a candle,
Or show me a dug up grave,
Or your old bycles’ handle!
May be a hidden cave?
At my behest,
At least get me a picture,
Or instead a bottle of rum,
For all my inspiration is lost,
And my lady refuses to come.
In a desert we sit
with a bottle of wine,
Amidst the sandy waves
under the bright sunshine.
You won’t break your silence
my jaws refuse to open,
In a desert, silent as dead
we sit with our hearts broken.
I see a picture of myself
dancing in the depths of your eyes,
Though a strange expression you wear,
It’s your face that often lies.
The wind that treads between us
is quieter than this desert,
while on the stage of my mind
a band of thoughts play a concert.
And in that moment of silence
my ear’s catch your beat,
I remember it from that eve
when you held my hand on the street.
In a desert, we sit
stretching on to infinity
diving into each others’ eyes,
we seek forgotten treasures,
A search with no beginning,
A search with no end,
A search for eternity.
I am a disappointment to many,
But I won’t be one to you,
Give me one last chance
And I will stop living for you.
I will disappear
Like smoke in the wind
that touched your face yesterday
Far away to a desolate island
I will leave and there stay.
Give me one more chance
I may think but never say
Diamonds are for ever, idols made of clay.
I will walk forwards
I will move on,
If you promise not to think of me
When I am gone.
I am no one to many
But I guess not for you,
Give me one more chance
And I will be gone before you knew.
I have been trying to write something of importance, on a topic that is significant and will make a difference in the world and it’s people’s lives. With innumerable incidental accidents and accidental incidents occurring all around the globe in myriad logical, social, scientific, and religious turfs, I failed heroically in picking up a topic to write on. Let me restate that my goal was to write an article expressing my views on any occurrence that has influenced the world and it’s people in some manner. But I could not bring myself to the task. Tormented by the incessant thoughts of my failure and its cause, and after a while of pondering, I arrived at the conclusion that the failure of my endeavours weighed on the shoulders of false objective. In the lines above, I mentioned that my goal was to write an article on an incident that had an impact on the world. But practically, it was simply to write. To write anything that I wanted with an infinite access to freedom of thoughts and expressions. Not bothered if it made sense to the world and it’s inhabitants, if it ventured in the bounds of sanity, it was fine. I find writing, one of the most calming and delighting labours. It can take you places while bringing you closer to yourself. Lost in a world where ideas popped like lava from an active volcano and wrestled to transform into words; and, still be more aware about his inner self. If anyone suggested that writing was a kind of meditation, I shall never beg to differ. For it releases you from the worldly bonds and laws and lets you express yourself to yourself. Writing is like an adventure to find your true self, identify it, and then accept it in harmony. And if that is not the most meaningful and gratifying thing; then, I don’t know what is!
SO PICK UP YOUR PEN AND WRITE,
WRITE WHEN YOU HAVE TIME,
A LETTER OR A STORY, A NOVEL OR A POETRY
WRITE FOR YOURSELF; IF, NOT FOR A DIME.