Micropoetry #3

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micropoetry_awkward_earthling

awkward_earthling_Night_Moon_love

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What if ..

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what_if_fire_pikturenama

What if,
my smiles
are a sequel
to what I want
to portray…
or a disguise
to the deceit
aura around me..

And what if,
I don’t exist!
A soul
with no meaning;
vacuous,
no design?

Then..
Where would I
lend my words to?
Would it go astray?
Un destined!?

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Untouched !!

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untouched

I put my pen to etch,
to visualize
and
to soak in –
to the complexities
around me
to the uncertainties of life,
but in vain !!

Phrases,
words
rhymes
syllables
envelope me,
but I fail,
and I metamorphose
into that void blankness
in the horizons.

I am
that unfinished painting
that painter’s desire
I am all myself,
but entirely incomplete.

They say
I can put words – to phrases
to rhymes
to scribbles..
to “Art”..

But..
I look at a mirror
and I see
a bare canvas..
Untouched!!

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the Fourth Dimension

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fourth-dimension

In the first dimension
I spectate.

In the second
I perceive,
I experience
I feel..

The third dimension –
“my soul”
verses up,
into the scribbles
I write..

And here I unfold
the fourth dimension –
A Geometric Opening
by the melodies I create !!

 

A passion
which I had kept aside
but now,
unfurling myself,
and let the rhythm
of the keys
soothe your ears,
as my finger tips
dance along the piano …

Yes, a melody played by me, and recorded with the available equipment & software. I would advice you to use earphones, as there are some minor technical glitches. Let me know what you think, coz this is my first ever attempt, on something of this sort..  🙂

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Micropoetry #1

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micropoetry 1

Disoriented –
life is sometimes
a bewilderment.

Its just those times
when life goes by,
contiguous.
& you stare – a spectator!!

Its in conflict,
it collides;
else, lurking low;
sometimes
a wild abrupt turn,
ignorant,
otherwise suspicious.

A prejudiced mess,
a wispy shadow;
a dilemma of perplexities.

And you still stare by
in exile –
the solitary bystander !!

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The Candles..

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candles f

She hated them.
Playing an evil dance
the wax melting
earthwards,
as the flame grew;
a cacophony of reds.
Why, she never knew
but since time,
she was indignant,
loathing them always –
the candles.

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Enslaved by loneliness,
amidst the array-
stranger beings and
of conventional bourgeois.
She met him
the other day;
amongst the vile faces.
She smiled, never knowing why.
But she felt her heart
hum a rhythm,
a rhyme new and different
at his eyes,
and those eyes
bewitched her.
All at once.

The day repeated again,
smiled he, this time.
Slowly but firmly
ardour intertwined
luxuriated fondness,
and she was owned;
as he bred her
with an epidemic
of him.

A fine evening,
rays from
the setting sun
playing the clouds;
and the winter mist
biting the warmth
of the day.

The room dimly lit,
His eyes cuddling
her persona.
His lips to her’s;
crave building in
her smell intoxicating;
her touch melting
into his desire;
his hands fluent to her curves
her wants calling him,
and they
dramatically eros.
Her chaos
relished onto him.
Him hypnotised
at her immense smile.
As his finger tips
created art
onto her naked canvas
again & again !!

Her eyes caught the candles.

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She hated them,
the cacophony of reds.
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Here he smiled..
a naughty smirk..
as she closed her eyes
to absorb him.
But then..

He stabbed her
He stabbed her again.
He stabbed her
for the last time.

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Playing an evil dance
the wax melting
earthwards,
as the flame grew.
Why, he never knew
but since time,
she was indignant,
loathing them always.

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Red over his hands
she left unmoving
silent
into perennial sleep.
He smiled deadly.
venomous.

Not lust,
nor desire.
But blood
was his dirty addiction;
Stabbed her thrice,
for she was his third.

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And the flame rose;
by the aroma of the blood.
And he will
never know
why she was indignant,
loathing them always –
The candles.

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The Halt

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The halt

***

Sitting at the end of the day,
when lights wrestle
the opaque darkness;
I try to comprehend
the vague thoughts;
biting me,
every depth in me.

But I lose sight
of the flowing fervour;
and the profound insides !!

This sudden whim
yielding me,
unlike me;
contradicting me;
takes me
into a bare horizon.

Of conglomerate intuition,
mismatched frequencies,
confused perceptions;
the panorama,
bleary and haze.

I take my pen to etch.
But the friction builds –
as the tip on the paper,
deadens the mechanism –
the current of write !!
And the canvas stares unclothed,
as words go astray.

My pen drops
my hands tremble;
for the words in my heart
play anagram
through my veins,
ambiguous and apathetic;
and my eyes unspoken
tears across
the murky breadths;
succumbing
to its nothingness.

I surrender
disgraced and at mercy
of destitute wordings
as it engulfs me again..
“The Writer’s Block”

And the lights,
wrestle and tussles
again;
the opaque darkness !!

***

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Birds..

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Birds Post

Image Courtesy : Thanks to Mariko Evans,for her wonderful photography
Portfolio site : http://www.marikoevans.com/

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I was tagged by Richa to write this post, in connection with 
#Blogchatter. 

But till this second, nothing runs in my head.

Where do I start?

Let’s start with a title. 8 minutes. Sounds interesting. And here it goes.

Eight Minutes

Now, me.
I, myself.
An inner realm, my soul.
My surrounds; the societies around me. Happenings. All clustered.
But I am blank.
I am thinking. I am receptive.
Its 9.24 pm. The weather is cold.
The coffee shimmers, as the room looked warm.
I am vague. I am emotionless.
No fancy word to pour out.
No thoughts to weave.
And I feel, I am similar.
I am alike to what I was and I am no different.
But I have changed. Maybe, I have transformed.
I have adapted. I have smiled, and have wrestled.
I have wept. I have soared.
I have lost.
I have won. I have conquered.
But I have been defeated too.
That was me.
Me in what I am. Me, in what I was.
Me.

 
And.
A few hundred miles away.
The sands of Arabia were around him.
It was 9.26 pm.
Him alone, like all the other days.
Unaccompanied.
Amidst the gushy winds and storms, he inhaled “safe” inside his cabin.
But this was his job; his living, and what he earned.
It was 9.28 and he knew the night could be worse.
He lit up a cigarette.
He sat with the cigarette in his hands. He knew he had only a few more cigarettes till the next supply.
The cold weather “weathered” away the cigarettes faster than what he thought would.
He would be happy on the day of the supply after every two weeks.
It meant garden-fresh fruits, vegetables & some beer.
And slowly he used to devour on the “happiness” of the supplies.
He wondered how life would have been at home.
The twinkle in the eyes of his 4 year old.
He missed it, as his eyes filled. He felt the pain in his throat spreading to his chest.
He missed his home. His Family.
It was 9.30 and the winds played on him & the never ending sands.
And him alone, like all the other days.

Its 9.32 pm.

Here, I cursed my “slow” Wi-Fi,
as the hot coffee
slipped through my tongue
& taming my insides.. !!

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