Walking in the graveyard,
Looking for the undead,
Is the living dread,
If not for the walking dead.
In hate, agony, and death,
The living unlock the truth
Of love, wonder, and life.
Whatever brings the strife,
Is matched and brought to the light.
In life, we fail and win.
In death, we thrive and lose,
In a mere attempt, we survive
The whatever mystery we are bestowed
To unlock and reset.
Life, huh?!
It indeed is a paradox!
If I were to say whatever comes to mind,
Unfiltered,unfettered, and uncensored,
Would I be relieved of the duty
Of existing in subtlety?
Or would I have become trapped,
In the senseless loop of being judged & rejected?
What is wrong with being weird?
Unbound by the wild rave of the world?
What is the return if you do your worst?
But again, who cares about that?
Why broil over it?
When you can nonconform
To the laws of the uniform?
Live when you can.
Attempt when it’s hard.
Whatever, however, it is,
Deliberately fail to conform.
In the field of battle/game,
All deem to be a king/queen.
In the field of life,
Where death duels life in all wretchedness,
Love obliges/bid everyone to be the king,
The unyielding king reigns the kingdom.
The never-ending ruler,
The endless king
Deems to be felt,
Earns to rule it all,
In the field of battle,
Neither love nor life,
Hate nor death,
Wisdom nor anger,
Call whichever god & goddess
Pain is the ruler of them all!
It demands to be felt.
It deems to be rectified.
Don’t let in the world,
Don’t let it win.
Instead, invade it with your own.
Within the vast universe,
Infiltrate your own existence,
After all, aren’t you part of it?
Don’t let the world get the best of you,
Try to get the best of the world,
Let the cities crumble, instead.
The grounds fold.
Don’t become the rubble of your fiend,
Instead,
Die in the beyond. Live in the rebuild.
After all,
Everything is the same, but different.
All things have changed, but alike.
I laugh when my life throbs.
I smile when my days throw themselves.
Underneath the layer of my whimsy.
I draw back to pain and misery.
For all the unfiltered rage I got taken by,
I laugh with a full menace,
To keep the tiny lights bright.
Yet, I’m teaching my heart to be kinder.
For all the vile inside,
I’m forcing myself to be gentle.
To go easy on myself,
With all the harsh reality
I’m surrounded with,
I laugh and enjoy the witty
Paradox, that’s my life.
It’s over now.
All of it.
The mantra. The cheap talk. The rave.
It’s all over now.
The world is a different place.
Life is in a different realm now.
Between the daydreaming
And losing sleep,
My fickled mind is losing a grip.
Yet, I have grown to get used to it.
To the loss of it.
To the idea of living it.
Or dreaming of trying to leave it all.
It’s all in between.
In the attempt of loving, living, & breathing,
In the conquest of dying before truly dying.
For a life that’s posthumously lived,
I don’t brood and ponder
Of what I must have
What I could’ve become
What I really am or whatnot.
For life has shipped off
To somewhere far, far away
I crave & flail throughout my day.
Perhaps that’s the thing about death.
It embraces you with perspectives,
A frame of reference you could’ve missed
You could’ve misconstrued.
Rekindling life with death deprives you
Of the misfits of the common man,
The opinions of the ton,
The lifetime shenanigans of ‘their’ plan
To your life and needs.
Within the realm of the living,
Death braces you with a concept beyond,
A life that beholds.
Not everyone is worth
Being called a human.
Some are a decoration,
I would reckon.
In the awe of mere existence,
We tend to call all the species,
HUMAN.
Yet, in all truth,
Are all deemed worth being one?
What makes a man a human?
Not a decoration amidst the ton?
A contradiction. A fallacy, in some?
Why would anyone be called a human?
In a world full of filth and disguise,
Those who pretend to be human,
Surmise the baffling existence
Of what one could’ve become,
Of whom one could have assumed.
Authentic. Realistic. Sensible.
(So far as I’ve realised),
What makes a person a mere human.
For many thrive in poppycock.
Nonsensical adventures, I would say.
To tell you they are the definition
Of what it is to be human.
Well, if one is deemed to tell you the biggest unknown,
The unveiled truth of ages,
All you could manage is to stifle a laughter
Of the paradox of one’s ignorance
For they are not, yet, smart
To see their loss.
As for me, I’m to learn
What, when, and how to be a human.
As I died to the life I forlorn,
Only to survive becoming a person.
In life, not all things are strifes.
Life could taste
like the first sip
of morning coffee—
a wake-up
call, a burning,
an embracing
warmth of a sunny morning .
In love, not everything is pain
Or a heartbreak and disdain.
It can be a refreshing realm
Of a serene domain.
A warmth for cold cracks
Of our heart creases.
My mind sometimes wonders,
To the life that’s not bitter,
A love that’s a healer,
And a world a little better.
Living underneath the shadow of my ideal twin
Is like living in a merciless, dark cavern.
For all the times I think
My existence is doomed to the brink
Of whatever is there between half death
And half life, I rise to the hazy life
That’s filled with caffeine,
Mere bitterness and riots.
That’s when I started to the scars on
my body like braille,
for I no longer know how
to tell a story that belongs
deeply to me, but is
no longer just mine.
It’s a cohesion of all within
All without.
And everything that has left me bereft.
For all days, I stayed in the cavern,
For all the moments I’ve shaded myself within,
I thrive to become my ideal twin.
The one who lives in the veils of the sun,
Out in the bright light.
If you smell a smoke passing me by,
It’s because my body is burning like a rye,
It’s the ashes that graze you,
It’s the weak, burnt down bones,
You hear clacking.
For all I know,
My body is revolting life,
Surviving the daily shenanigans,
The throws and rebukes,
While my heart is all swelled,
Dared, panicked, and drained.
If you hear a growling sound,
Or a creepy humming,
Or a yearn of exhaustion,
It’s, perhaps, my buzzing brain,
My absent mind,
And my thoughts, unbridled.
Don’t take notice of my acts,
Nor my voice,
It’s the sum of uncluttered bits and pieces.
Do I wonder to live?
Do I ponder about life?
Is life passing me by
While contemplating?
Or am I in a haze of living,
While I’m continually, inevitably dying?
Live not, while dying.
Die not, while living.
It’s not in the stars.
It’s rather in the attempts fate resides.
In whispers and sighs,
Amidst the whimsy of the days,
I fret. I fight. I flight.
The wounds might salve themselves
The scars might heal
But the melancholic riots in my head
The flustered thoughts I cuddled
Rot my existence. My living strides.
Do I live?
Should i die?
Should I just wait?
For life to happen?
Would I survive yet another storm?
Another tide?
Or should I just hide?
Knuckle under to the fear of the waver?
This is, yet, another rant of a poet.
Not a rhymes of a poem.
Through the terrors of the day,
Through the beams of the ray,
I wilt and fret.
Through the bliss of the night,
Through the finesse of the quiet,
I reign and revolt.
Against what, you ask?
The shenanigans of living, perhaps?
The laws and wrecks of thoughts?
Who can say?
This is a diatribe of existence.
A discourse of attempts.
This is a rant of a poet,
Not a poetry, nor an art.
In hesitation, I merely choose.
I falter and fall apart.
I let my thoughts rule.
My mind, overtaken.
My body to be absent,
My soul to be strained.
All is bad in hesitation.
Doubt and dread flourish.
Yet,
In haste, I embelish the good with bad.
I forget that I exist.
I snare at brief moments of life.
O in haste, I conquest.
I take over it all.
If no time is there to think, overthink, and fret,
I triumph it all.
I beat my overthoughts.
I reign over my doubts and frets.
If I were to choose between haste and hesitation,
I would rather hesitate not to be in haste.
Or shall I just decide with no thought?
Would that relieve me of the doubt?
Exactly.
What about God?
What is it now?
What is it always?
If no God exists,
It itches.
If a God exists,
It creeps.
If none of it bothers,
It hinges.
What, then?
What about God?
If I were to write
Whatever I want
Whatever I desire
What is it really about God
That exhausts and tires?
What is it about him
Uncompelling. Uninteresting. Undesirable.
The power?
The tantalizing existence?
Because he hides even when he exists?
Because he manipulates and ghosts?
Or is it because he intimidates
Without really saying a word?
He never communicates
Not in a straightforward sense, anyway.
It’s not hate.
Nor is it spite
It is a matter of fact
A way to think about
A mere wonder to fret.
What is it, though?
What is it about God?
That itches. That bothers. And that creeps.
Unabridged Manuscripts 