Can I?

 

Often in the evening strolls

a realisation sneaks up

which recalls something really tough.

Should I continue or give up?

The stigma of latter can be rough

but what if I am fed up?

Nothing will ever be enough.

Characterisation has made it hard to give up

even on something which makes me miserable.

So I started to bluff to myself…

The worst kind of gamble.

 

Please don’t berate me for leaving now.

I tried but couldn’t finish somehow.

Only a human, I am.

I wish I had a backspace key now.

Regardless of what they say,

What they say does matter.

Let me find a better way,

Allow me to choose the latter.

I shall come back better,

I shall come back brighter,

I will feel honest and lighter.

Giving up does not make me any less of a fighter.

 

 

If something makes you miserable, there is no shame in giving it up. Giving up to try something new is actually a sign of bravery.

-Nishant, The Poet and the Pen.

Let me

 

Let me be your lyricist

and write that befitting song.

Let every pulse under my wrist

add a beat for as long

as I continue to exist.

Let a music be born

and reverberate in all directions.

To the world you may not be great

because of your imperfections.

But to me you are,

The person from the pond’s reflection.

 

 

It is you and always just you. When you write your own song, it lasts forever.

-Nishant, The Poet and the Pen.

 

Fiction

 

I have a theory that says,

Fiction is non-fiction in the making.

Those who transform a fiction into a fact

Change the ways of our living.

And that not many but one fiction

Resides in each of us.

Can we solve that question?

Do we have that obsession?

We seek greatness and immortality

In what lies in front of our eyes.

Maybe we fail because

It lies behind our eyes.

Find that fictitious thought,

Write it in your mind.

Heave till the fact is caught,

Fiction is yours but non-fiction is for the mankind.

 

 

We all have that one thought inside our mind which if realised and put out there in the world, it can make the world a better place.

Who is it for?

I need to confess something. It’s all addictive. Social media is addictive with all its likes and comments and shares and subscribes and I am afraid I am addicted now.

Poems and Stories give me happiness, it is all pure but lately I realised they are getting influenced by Social Media’s society. My love for Poems is far too much and I am afraid that I must stop this addiction dead at its track.

So can I urge you all to just read this one as a simple reader?, because this is being written by a simple Poet and nothing more. Straight from my heart and not due to any influence, from the old Poet and the Pen…

Read to know…know to read

 

 

Somewhere down the line I forgot,

For whom it was all about.

Sheer happiness is what I got,

The day my first poem came out.

I had no one to impress,

Nor did I sought any admirers.

All I wanted was to spread happiness,

And help others in becoming survivors.

My words made me smile and that was it,

Unlike now where it depends on how good others will see it.

My Poems have always stopped me from tapping quit. 

I am Poet first and at my place shall I sit.

Creativity is a gift and thus can never be truly realised,

Even though my motives were good, I think I compromised.

Just like me most of us have been hypnotized,

Listen up creators, be simple and free, the world will be surprised.

Invitation to Sadness

 

And thus I allowed it’s stay to be conditional,

By letting it reside with others.

For in them I tried to seek,

It, Happiness, whom we smother.

 

Aware but indolent and in denial,

I reassured myself of my choice.

After many reminders and no response,

It decided to silence its voice.

 

And then one day, they all left.

Life, said the note behind.

Along with them it also walked out,

Inviting Sadness to my mind.

 

By the time I realised, I was late,

It had made those “others” great.

So now I no longer search for it,

Happiness, I know you are waiting outside my gate.”

Pressing issues #2

Topic #2

Sacrificing Hobby

 

 

Hey ordinary, how do you do?

Upset? when someone says this to you,

I won’t apologise for being true,

For you did this to yourself, didn’t you?

 

Hobbies are trademarks of individuality,

They may sound same but that’s the only similarity,

For your hobby and your personality,

Combined contribute to your singularity.

 

You had/have a gift,

But you chose to let it go.

If you think your hobby cannot lift,

Look at the legends on whom are the TV shows.

 

No, it’s not late, it’s still out there,

Go on, run after it, catch it and stare,

Grow together, learn and preach,

Your Hobby is your flair.

From my bed to the main door

 

Every morning I take 30 steps,

From my bed to the main door.

Game for the day thus sets in motion,

30 steps determine how much I will score.

 

All the while I seek 3 lines,

What do I want to do today?

How bad do I want it?

Where do I need to improve?

 

What I want is to do better than yesterday,

And I want this feeling every single day.

I lack skills in every direction,

I suppose I am an idiot is what we should all say.

 

With these 30 I leave my house,

Ready to dance to today’s tune,

Every morning from my bed to the main door,

I set myself up as the World impugns.

अकेला कौन है?

Alone, being lonely is as they say, a state of mind.

Let me prove it to you.

 

 

अकेला कौन है?
जब भी किसीने कुछ नया करना चाहा
वो अकेला रहा.
जब भी किसीने अपने मन से जीना चाहा
वो अकेला रहा.
जब भी किसीने अपने आप से सच कहा
वो अकेला रहा.
जब भी किसीने सच सुन्ना चाहा
वो अकेला रहा.

अकेला क्यों रहा?

दुनिया के कुछ नियम और कानून है,
जो मानता है बस उसे ही मालूम है,
खुद को अगर आईने में देख सकते हो तोह,
बात मेरी तुम्हे मालूम है.

अपने शर्तो पे जीना सीखा,
अपनी बात को कहना सीखा,
जो सही लगा वही पूछना सीखा,
बिना झिजक के उड़ना सीखा.

किया वही जो मान से आया,
सुन्ना उसी को जिसको हमने समझाया,
सही चलने की कोशिश में कही,
अपने आपको अकेला पाया.

अकेला हुआ पार अकेला नहीं था,
साथ कभी कम नहीं था,
जब सन्नाटा छाया चारो और,
दर लगा पर साथ वही था.

साथ कौन था?

साथ थी मेरे वो यादें,
वो नजाने कितनी सीख और बाते,
बचपन से जो संजोया था वो,
आईने से करता था बाते.
में अकेला पड़ा पर में नहीं गया
काफी कुछ सहा और काफी कुछ कहा,
बेकार फ़िज़ूल का दर था मेरा,
क्युकी में खुद को ही भूल गया.

अकेला कौन है?
अकेला कोई नहीं, अकेली सोच है.
विकलांग करने वाली चोट है.
जब भी लगे अकेलापन सा,
खुद को ढूँढना बाकी सब खोट है.

Stage yourself

Short but Significant.

 

We decide our own character,

We decide our own cast,

We decide our own script,

But the play is far more vast.

Despite us doing everything, why do we feel like an outcast?

 

Book is one with a single story,

But multiple chapters and lessons.

We fixate on things that shouldn’t make us worry,

Not all ends are conclusions.

 

Each character is a book,

And each book writes itself.

Life only decides the path you last took.

Decide how you want to stage yourself.

My Flair

A writer sitting in a cafe trying to come up with a work is quite common. But let’s not talk about common things, ordinary things for some time.

Our minds are perhaps the best gift given to us for it allows us to think and do the most amazing stuffs.

Owing to our minds, each and every one of us has a flair. A speciality about ourselves. While I am awaiting for my fellow readers to share/talk about their flair with me, let me share about mine.

My Flair

I am an absolute buffoon.

Not knowing is my speciality.

I sometimes feel like December in June,

But I try to understand everything in its totality.

That is my Flair.

Knocked down several times,

Sometimes due to my lack of guard,

Sometimes due to some uncommitted crimes,

Yet none could get me disbarred,

I keep narrating my triumphs in rhymes.

That is my Flair.

I try to know things,

Unconventional or conventional are bounded by rings,

Fools who keep trying become Kings,

My Flair is my willingness to craft my own wings.

 

-That is my flair, what about you?