Weep the Vanished

Just another day sitting on the grass heads, Embracing a sweet silence.

I fled back closely attending my thoughts, Where I do not belong in the absence of you.

My hues became darker, But that’s how my life changed with a marker.

Times when my pillow went Sottish to chatter with me late nights, Only to make my next day bright, without you on my right.

Sessions went on until my mind discovered the seers my heart had, Only to shatter my emotions out.

Oh! How I still feel those thousand kisses planted on my face, Just to scratch my skin, with some mace.

What made me crave your taste, To starve to sins I need not haste.

I still contain you this long, Knowing here, I do not belong.

Everyday my mind builds a bridge of ice and fire, So no one touches me while I am higher.

Now sitting here I know, That these memories will never go.


Amount of knowledge

Would you be more interested to interact with a person with same amount of knowledge as you or with a person who has more knowledge than you?

The art of playing with words

How pleasing are the gifts which we can touch? Oh wait, does it draws more pleasure to you than the gifts we feel, listen, consume in our minds?Here I the gifts that we feel are referred to words. The alluring day when this world was turned upside down when words touched the winds of earth.

So now it’s a freezing winter noon and I am packed up in my cosy bed wondering about the wonder of words. Words, oh! beautiful words being property of beautiful minded writers like you and others. Those aesthetically woven minds of the past who left words for the the present minds to entwine. It’s not only us who speak words but while earth rotates there is a echo of the word : “Om”. Sounds interesting?

Words are a unique creation which pulls out inner energies and amazing ideas in real form. I have been an introvert person and am not yet completely studied to the art of playing with words but my staircase to WordPress was a diary which I maintained for few recent years of my life until I spilled more on pages. My dearest diary was an initiative and a success to introduce myself to the art of playing with words. My diary was like a gunpoint on my head shooting bullets and my head out with feelings and thoughts. Since the day my hand everyday pulls out thoughts from the locked parts of my brain and subconscious mind for more words and thoughts to bring in on the light of my eyes and get further processed for you to read.

I don’t really recognise the activity I am bound to which makes it a little hard for me to write forever like a dream. Invisible pressures I can’t count on🧐 but it does not stop me from writing my heart and mind out . I wish from a wish granting factory if it exists to let give papers to people to spill willingly their painful or happy hearts out in order to provide oxygen to their frustrated minds.

How hectic is this life for you to stop you from being magician of words? What an irony is it for me that I would leave question mark on the end of this write up for you to answer whilst I hated the chapter on the Indus Valley civilisation which had Question mark on each paragraph on the end. Anyways I am curious to know more about you my dear reader how easy is it with words? What are words for you? Creative thinking in me pops out when I am in a moving car when do your thoughts pop out? During a shower? Or time in the park? Or some other inhabited place? Do answer:)

These Spotless lines utter

As the bib of my pen runs through those spotless lines,

there is a mirth washing the sorrow of every passing age.

When these hands speak their entire life of macabre,

the eyes shed silent tears leaving no scars behind.

The fallout’s of this soul mock at the seers of the body,

cause this soul had traces of happiness and colours of sorrow in the art of heart.

But my cosmo Macadam the future cause I am a believer,

Hoping that the Cosmo won’t be sottish lining it .

My woes are shaped once more to the path of smoothness and freshness on these blank pages,

Until it leads to thorny ways again.

My sins incriminate me!

Today I incriminate myself , like the bloody hands of a murderer!

I look through the eyes of death and see a deceased heart bleeding with a constant supported pumping.

To them, whose hearts were invisible to me ; are perhaps stopped by me ,

I am a god fearing human , with a pot full of sins ready to drown me.

I, because , had two voices , where the devious was unknown ,

And the divine voice roamed in the garden’s of their hearts.

Now I am pulled back to the extinct days which has casted its shadow on my instants ,

My present stands with an empty stained hand hereby.

Still celebrating the years ahead , to wash that blood in my hand ,

And let my heart blossom the bleeding hearts ,to bring them to healing again.