If there is a size below zero she looks exactly the one. Some time I wonder, how she navigates her little body? from place to place. And will she able to take a pat on her shoulder? as an appreciation for the work well done. I don’t know! She flaps her wings a thousand time to maintain a balance in the air feeding on every flower. But I hardly know anything about the purpose of her flight. Am not pitying her physical strength or romanticizing. But just randomly thinking about her.
She is known for her quickness. It must be natural for her to learn everything fast, but maybe without realizing the good and the bad. And it is obvious that she has to visit every flower that is empty as well as the one overflowing with honey. As a spectator I can reason out with my human mind that not all flowers taste the same. But she has to feed herself to survive. I see her getting obsessed with one flower which she finds attractive. She knew that the flower contains honey occasionally. In spite of the fact, she waits! For days and months starving. The flower never bloomed, thereafter.
The last I saw her flew- flapping her now the broken wings- to the same flower which she is obsessed with- looking for honey.
I wouldn’t say it was a bad day. For him it was a day of Indulgence, a thought which was so deep, it made him numb. He works in a night club, he has lots of work to do now. But he seems to be occupied. Everyone who entered the hall could sense, that he is troubled. He isolated himself from the crowd, who were shattering his thoughts with laughter and stares. So he stood at the entrance. “LEAVE right now”, a voice from inside exploded like a scream. It was a voice with such a terrifying intensity, he could hardly handle. The event was pretty colourful, the lights, music, drinks and so on. The ambience and the nature of the party reaches him like a wave, whenever someone enters and exits the event. The door excluded him and the guest differently, no actually he made that. He was not attracted by the event, but his thought breaks down constantly because of the guests. He sat like a model of pain, on whom the others were relaxing. May be he was a pain bearer who stood at the entrance, carrying the bundle of anger, frustration, pain from the guests. As the time passed, the music turned louder, lights brighter, there was scream, a mad laughter, and so on. It pounded his thoughts harder from both inside and outside the door. He covered his ears and head with both hands and fell flat on his face. His conscious was fading, but none was around to look after.
I don’t know how he did that, but yes, he somehow managed to drag himself into the rest room. He made a room for himself near the wash basin. And leaned towards the wall where a huge mirror was kept hanging. He splashed some water on his face, and wiped the blood. He didn’t regain his conscious, but his thoughts were. When he looked himself into the mirror, his thoughts got a shape. The longer he looked, the longer his reflection stared at him. His image started to blend in him and became one. An indescribable SCREAM exploded and he lost his consciousness. Nobody knows what he was thinking.
I am the THOUGHT.
It was cool, calm and drizzling
I sat in a place where
Once an old tree stood with glory
With which our mason measured
The now called “foreign languages complex”
They called her old, and weak then
They dragged her to ground and broke
It was cool, calm and drizzling
But I no more feel it same.
Those birds left the place, so the old one
With no peace.
I was forced to stand and stare.
Not the one like Frost to share
But to tell things that not so fair
To the passers who least care.
I miss you old lady
I’m holding my hands
Too long and too wide
Too long so that I can reach you
Too wide so that I can hold you.
Never doubt for how long
I can stand like this.
Of course I complain
Now and then, too much of time
Pains my hands.
So paint me with love
I will stay freeze
Like the painting on the “grecian urn”
Playing the song which is never heard
Dancing without a single move.
When you are done
Call your work of art
As a master piece
Make people believe that I’m
The symbol of love
From then on, you can say nothing.
Let the world talk about us.
By making people’s gaze meaningful,
And breaking all their sarcasm and
Doubts on my madness which
Have been misjudged in the past.
If art tells lie to convey the truth
Then let the painting do its job.
Else let it stand for nothing
For the people who least carry
Rational minds for emotions.
My birth got legitimized
Since I got baldness from my father
My race was classified
With my brownish skin tone
My caste was formalized
With my cleanliness
My wealth was identified
With my dress code in general
My religion was traced
Through the symbols I carry
My language was standardized
With my unique accent
My character was recognized
Though the friends I have
But nothing in the above stood
For me alone but only in “relation to”
Good Lord Devil
Take me to hell
Where you treat all the sinners
In the same way
And if you give chance for all
To take next birth
Make us blind
Before you let us go.
When those flowers and leaves
Withered from its branch
I know how the trunk felt
For so long under the Sun
Carrying the shame of someone else
Of love and lust they
Once had with tempting fragrance
When the bees were flirting
I know how the rose turned Red with shy.
Now every day in and day out
I couldn’t stand the sight
Of the remaining becoming graveyard.
It is the ‘deep root’ed
Think called Love
Wandering in its dream
Imagining life of its own
Believing things are in respective place.
Making someone’s shame on other
Beautiful from its unseen world
When perspective changes
From its roots to trunk to branches
To leaves to flower
When the sun was on its way home,
I was crowded with your thoughts.
I colored its extended arms
Starting with Green to Red to Blue
Finding it wasn’t enough I continued
With Yellow and Purple of different shades.
And I tried to mix it then and their.
But couldn’t find the right stare.
Instead- the thought turned pale and lamented.
Gosh! I was trying to color the dark.
Though I had a sense of colors
The colors I reached wrote its own story
of pain, and joy through my hands.
When People, birds, dogs, cats,
Friends, fellow poets and the whole world slept.
Oh! I can see the rising Sun
With a wake up call for the day.
And I Hope it shows the art of darkness.
The paint I painted with pain.