It’s a 4-minute song.
My life, everything.
This nuisance.
Also, the reverence.
It began abrupt.
And it will halt quickly.
The interlude shifts.
The pendulum alternates.
All the excitement.
All the pain.
It’s all confided,
In a 4 minutes song.
And all in the while,
As it enfolds before me,
I close my eyes,
I sway and waltz.
I shut off my mind,
And heed it in my soul.
Feel it within the anchors of my heart.
For it quickly ends,
Before it even begins.
One must not live,
Under the hedonistic imperative,
Nor beneath the derogative of irreproachable happiness.
All for what, to survive?
Or is it to thrive?
After all,
We are doomed to reconcile,
That we, in fact, are,
Unsalvaged, yet untethered.
Fetterd, yet freed.
Crossed and vexed, yet unhinged.
Unyielding, and yet traced.
Whatever [however] it is,
Shriek the unease
And rinse the wrath,
With confined fire
Un-succumbed mirth,
And untraced smoke.
I suppose I am happy, as well.
Across the myriad of sadness,
An unsorted kaleidoscope of fickleness,
Amidst the converged painful thoughts and memories,
I am doomed, nay, destined to embrace,
My imbibed happiness.
For however long it may be,
Once or twice, or just sometimes.
If it weren’t for the loss of accuracy,
An exact equivalence for what is what,
A mere loss of definition,
I would have certainly known,
Rather than suppose,
Or pry and wonder.
Nevertheless, today, now, here –
I reckon I am in vigour.
In undaunted revere.
For I can see beyond the despair.
[For now, perhaps]
We tend to suppose our sadness,
For we live in the wrong subsistence,
From the life, we have always craved,
The kind we were deprived –
We are deemed to have supposed,
That we are truly sad.
Living beneath the cathartic influence,
Wallowing in feigned caricature,
We, certainly, suppose
Our sadness, not the bliss.
The agony, not the trance.
Then, again, we wonder.
What is happiness, anyway?
Is it a mere state?
Or a reversed alternate?
An alternate we haven’t yet met,
Or confronted?
Is it devoid of pain?
Or is it a life with no fear?
Is it, perhaps, a way to condone,
The miserable trifle we live in?
Or a struggle to console,
Our troubled soul?
If it wasn’t for imagined reality,
This unconquered world of felicity,
Could we have to borne our sadness?
If it wasn’t for the hope of better days,
Could we have held on to the absurdities?
Whether we denote a definition
For the true state of elation,
Whether true enchantment
Lies in the next exit,
If it wasn’t for this expectation,
The assured belief of better times,
How else would we have settled for our sadness?
Our collective griefs?
And the desolate fry of our days?
We suppose we are sad,
To forfeit the weight of the blue ballad,
To transcend beyond the horizon,
Far better reality than we have condoned.
Come, beneath the sky full of stars,
For boulevard at night shines.
Come, to awash all the sadness,
For this night is full of bliss.
Between the noise and the silence,
Amidst the chaos and the repose,
Let’s shred away the stings,
The stress and the bad omens,
For the light never fades,
The sparkle brightens,
Our thoughts synchronize,
For memories are engraved,
Moments are captured,
In the static slice of seconds,
Life, truly, exists.
A life that never dies!
A hiccup, unyielding.
A nuisance, ungiving.
I feel my mere enthuse
Bereaved and befuddled.
Yet, I rise
To the iridescence
Of the days.
In an utter hope
Of moments, without the interim.
We know not ourselves, do we?
For every moment we think of
To have known ourselves,
To have it all figured out,
We meet the un-luminated abstract,
Unexplored fright,
Untamed rage,
Unconquered wit,
And sometimes unrealized fact.
For every moment we dared to have known,
We subdue and retreat,
All the way back to the start!
When the music thumps in my head,
The wind blows across my face,
And for once,
I forget the world that bickers,
And I rise to iridescence.
That’s exactly when
I – feel – incandescent.
Unyielding to the magnitude,
Emboldened to press through,
To reach of the infinitude,
And erase the feels of the blue!
If I swore an oath not to write,
If, by any chance, I consent,
To no longer inscribe,
I must have found a way to my heart.
A key to my chaotic head.
Or maybe,
I had just forfeited
To the wages against myself,
The battles roaming in my mind,
And the wars of my everyday strifes.
I’m agitated to write,
Yet in solicitude by not.
Rushed to spell it all.
At once, to say it all,
Yet contended to hide it
Altogether beneath the shawl.
My mind reeks
Of the unprecedented thoughts,
And accumulated resentments and regrets.
I do not recall the blemishes,
I have scrounged all over the surface.
I do not repress,
Every inch of my fiber,
To squeeze all the goods,
And to banish all the bads.
All I know is,
All I can smell is,
How my mind reeks!
On the brink of existence,
I embrace.
In the bane trial of survival,
I pry and follow the trail.
In a mere coincidence,
I wish to see consistence.
And then I realize,
It is a tell-tale
I impose on myself.
A story I wish to tell,
But not a life I care to have.
I let my mind sleep,
-Breath,
At least sometimes.
Whenever encountered
With feigned minds.
The gullible and the cowards.
I let my body float,
Harness, at least.
Not by arguing for sophistication,
Not by giving in
For the collectively programmed wants,
And desires.
I. Just. Let. Go.
Roam through the minutes. Hours.
And I caress my enraged soul
And tell my heart
That time is not passing me by,
‘Cause I fly
While I pry.
And I do not cry.
Nor fry
I choose to entreat,
From that brain of mine
And I let the moment sly
For my soul to get by.
In the desolate expedition
Of trying to find oneself,
The meaning of life,
One could not help to feel the knife,
Of the incessant grief,
Of all the losses sustained,
And the inept to fully recover,
To recede from the cliff of sadness,
Only to settle
In the island of fragilities!
When taken aback
From the journey through
The strata of oblivions.
Here and there,
When awakened back
To this sordid reality,
To this absurdity,
Only then,
Let’s disappear into the horizon,
Into the light,
And write poetry,
In utter darkness,
In perfect solace.
Solitude is a friend.
But, loneliness is a foe.
For one who dreads,
The company of a mind,
Is surely mad.
Yet,
For the man who felt abandoned,
Left aside from the entire world,
Then,
Lonesome is a nemesis,
And the void is fierce.
For loneliness is sadness,
But solitude is a comrade.
All, made of bone and blood,
Yet, try to comprehend
This life they succumbed.
Those who knew and understand, dread.
The others, deny and pry
While the rest, comply.
All die.
Yet, they live.
Or survive.
Even, love.
In the infinitude bits of tropes,
They thrive.
Live, survive, and love.
But one should never forget,
All, made of bone and blood,
And all will be dead.
Unabridged Manuscripts 