Dried Ink

Coming back…

 

Ironic!

A live street in an iconic city,

Yet everything seems dull as a desert.

Pages are blank while the Pen is witty,

Ironically the writer is unable to assert.

 

Which brings into question the reason for this,

This void of thoughts in an ever thinking mind.

And as the writer seeks the miss,

He lost his eyes and turned blind.

 

Chair right in the front made a noise,

As if someone just came and sat.

And in a sound similar to mine, said

“It’s time for you to have a chat”

 

I listened as I narrated an old story,

Who, What, Why and When came back.

A poet who was in his prime and glory,

Is in need of a whole new track.

 

And no one else could tell me that,

For no one else knows me for I.

Yes, sometimes you need to put on the wise old hat,

And look for yourself with a blind eye.

 

The story he narrated is different for each of us,

And so is the struggle, so is the fuss.

Suddenly the voice muted and I could see,

A new path and an awaiting bus…

 

Branches

For the very first time, I am allowing my own voice to sound the Poem I wrote for the world. For those who do not have the time to read my words, can now hear it from the composer.

Do let me know if you liked it as much as I did composing it.

Listen to know…know to read

 

While I carved life on the canvas,

A beguiling form started to emerge.

Haywired but pristine to look at,

Many lines did while many didn’t converge.

Upon completion I took a few steps back,

And gazed at a multi-coloured tree.

Each branch with its own demeanour,

That only the carver would see.

Each chapter of ours created a branch of its own,

Some ended, some persisted, and some awaited.

Each with soft sweet fruits or white harsh stones,

For us to taste as life advocated.

Haywired but pristine is what I saw,

Because each branch had a beautiful outline.

Good ones were good and bad ones weren’t flawed,

In the end, every chapter turned out just fine.

 

A fraud’s confession

I have a label on my head,

“One who deceives for his gain.”

I trick and lie to earn my bread,

But am I the one who is insane?

I walk amongst others like a regular bloke,

And see no difference between you and I,

We all behave the same round the clock,

Show me one person who does not lie.

I have a label on my head,

But I don’t hide behind any tower.

Denounce this false high that you are being fed,

Kindness lies in being yourself, being yourself is power.

Searching…

Did you find what you were looking for?

Something we ask other people quite often. But what about our own selves?

To find one must get lost,

For the thing you seek is lost too.

To learn one must forget,

Pretend there is nothing that you ever knew.

To understand what you do not,

Try something different and new,

To find peace and yourself,

Walk in the world’s shoe.

To do anything that you wish to,

First do what you never did.

To be anything you hope to be,

Life will only allow and not forbid.

Who was that?

Surrounded by fields of golden wheat,

With edge of the forest as it’s fence,

Stood a small town with narrow bricked streets,

Harbouring nothing but suspence.

Many who went there lived the same day,

Uncertain of their own eye’s account.

Strangely enough they all lost their way,

When they met her, a mathematician who couldn’t count.

Her charm was perfect like an old magic spell,

Which gained the trusts of travellers she came by.

Her smile was innocent and meant only well,

And eyes were deep, beautiful and shy.

She asked three questions…

“Where lies the destination you are so destined to be?

For the end is similar for all. Just be free.

Do you really chase your dreams or are you trying to flee?

Careful, this answer is the key.

Close your eyes to see who you are supposed to be?

And just like that, they all ended up alone before a lake by a tree.”

No one ever saw her or heard her voice again,

Yet they felt estrange and rejoice,

Who was that girl and where did she vanish?

Or maybe she was conscience seeking a clear choice.

Unreal reality

Let us believe that our believes are wrong,

Days are short but the hours are long,

Deaf is hearing a dumb person’s song,

And the reality was unreal all along.

We aren’t whom we thought we were,

Winters are clear while summers are blur,

Each argument is accepted without any demur,

Can you imagine, Madame and Monsieur?

I pave the way for you to see a new world,

Unreal reality is laminar yet twirled,

Add a little randomness, let logic get swirled,

For that time it is just your world.

Let others live by the rules and norm,

Enjoy the wind and rain of what they call storm,

Just wander the reality of an unreal platform,

For when you come back, you will be happy, you will perform.

Tree in the woods

I met a tree in the woods I was lost,

Green and lavish with a little bit frost,

Seeking some rest and shelter from wind,

I ate the fruits it bore, free of cost.

Days passed as I remained stuck,

Fearing the worst as I questioned my luck,

When suddenly I heard, “Life”.

Said the face on the tree trunk.

“Neither can I speak nor run,

Standing still under the Sun.

Facing wind and taking on rain,

I provide all with nothing to gain.

I live life like life lives in us all,

Let me show you though I cannot stroll.

Your childhood is spring, while youth is summer,

Elderly is the autumn and absence is the fall.

However, those who fall are replaced by new,

As that is what life is, simple and true.

Moral of tree is not to scare or haunt,

Live life as if you want because,

Today you are, tomorrow you won’t,

Leaves may fall but roots don’t.”

Story

Chapter 1.

Ageless, faceless, nameless protagonist,

Existing only in the “World of Words”.

A brief account of nature and character,

Which the writer never said but you heard.

Chapter 2.

A recollection of an event that sends,

Ripples even to days of now.

Effects, either good or bad, from those bends,

Navigates the author’s pen as it ploughs.

Chapter 3.

Trying to steer as per the story,

Whilst making choices of his own.

Decides protagonist’s fall or glory,

Authoring the story of his own.

Chapter 4.

I speak to you says your book,

You who is its writer and its lead.

Your steps is what your story took,

For everyone but the author to read.