Want To Be Liberated

I had created

A Hell

A Shell

A Deep Dark Well

A Perfect Snare

To snare myself.

I had created

A Haze

A Cage

A Deludingly Depressive Phase

To cry and die

Hundred million times.

The Victim in me

Was chased

And fazed

By the Villainy

Of my Mind

And its Intellectual Grinds.

But now I want 

My Fears abated

My Pains ablated

And my Soul Liberated.

Yes, now I want

Distresses berated

Happiness-es elated

And my Hopes reinstated.

Freedom of My Nomadic Self...

my thoughts are nomadic

my soul's a gypsy

and my heart resides

in a caravan always on  move.

yet i'm enslaved

eternally enclaved

in a prison cell

a whip-lashing hell

of flesh,bones and blood.

when death the loving guest

will bring my body to rest

and my soul will be freed

to join its own lonesome creed.

my thoughts will roam around

never to stop again

in the dungeons of pain.

and my nomadic self

with death the saviour's help

will have freedom found.

My Laughter & My Tears

When the pains

  Talk

I silently listen. 

When the sufferings

  Play

 I am a silent spectator.

But I laugh, laugh, laugh

Louder than the sobs.

The sobs betrothed

Eternally to tears.

The sobs hiding dread

But nourishing my fears.

But they are indeed

Weak, Weak , really Weak.

The sound, the noise;

The voice.

Ineffectually lingering

In voids.

undecipherable,  undecipherable

Those sobs and those tears.

Tall,towering, mountainous;

yet deeper than the sea.

Loud and clear,

Colossal forever,

My laughter, not my tears.

Arduous Existence

Space-less silence monumental shouts

Deceptive dreams, all give clouts

To the unearthly souls

Perfectly packed and parceled

In weak bodies that look stout.



 Cobweb of life with a spider hung

Dishevels intellect, as if stung

By a cold-hearted serpentine.

unable to think, act, or rise

Yet alive with a throttled mind.

Is Beauty Really Beautiful?

they talk of beauty, but where does it reside?

in smooth skins, or crispy hair;

in thin lips,or deep dark eyes;

in soft hand-shakes or gentle intonations;

in fake smiles or false adulations?

is beauty really that beautiful?

pleasant, lovely, and graceful?

but how can it be so?

when it can only see

all that's made-up and artsy;

and only breeds discrimination?

when snobbery it prefers,

and prejudices it admires,

and repugnance is its manifestation?

let beauty be a forgotten word

a word never said and never heard.

for it teaches to hate and despise

to look down upon and criticize.

Death of Hope

demise of divinity,

end of the gospels of love

here starts a brand new day

with earthly shades

of pains and only pains.

laughter plays a game

of rediculous mockery

smile clings to parched lips

and the heart's overcast with sorrow

but tears don't bring rains.

bodily shackles entraps

the wounded heart,heart's

wounded but it doesn't bleed.

hoping for a sadness loving creed

aspiring to be eternally sad

on the parched-parched land

which has treasures of agony to drain.

Melancholy- My Comrade

Deeper, deeper, deeper, down she goes,

Comes, nearer and nearer and consoles.

She is my friend, she is eternity,

I love her and call her Melancholy.

When sleepless at night in solitude,

When looking at the stars with no fortitude,

When haplessly, staring at the lonesome sidewalks,

And listening to the night’s silent talks.

She comes and silently stands by my side,

Takes me deep, down on her fantasy ride,

Silently wipes away the dew-drops,

Softly with her angelic hands, she mops,

The corners of the eye-lashes,

Where the pain reflects and flashes.

When shattered, ruptured and tormented heart,

Is further tortured, pained and broken apart,

Like a heavenly bird, she sings a threnody,

And her mellifluous voice glorifies the melody.

Wake Up Woman, Wake Up...

Wake up woman.

Why are you asleep?

See, what they have

Made out of you.

They imposed on you

Hundred promises to keep.

And gave you

Gentle, soft slumbers to sleep.

Wake up woman

How much more will you sleep?

Will you silently believe

What they make you believe?

Oh, what a greed

They constantly feed

Your soul with!

Oh, how unkind

they make your mind

In the name of family!

Your life starts

At the threshold

Of a building called Home.

But beyond it,

Your heart and soul, together roam.

There you are

With malnourished children

In a local aanganbari.

And here you crave

For a Banarsi saari!

Your heart says-

"Go and save

The child that howls

On the streets whole night."

But your Husband says-

"Your child's safe,

That's enough for you."

Wake up woman.

How much more will you sleep?

Will you silently believe

What they make you believe?

They make you Goddess,

They make you princess.

Here you are

With a 'Monalisa-smile'

Here you are

a perfect Merlyn Monroe!

But, how can you forget?

Saint Teresa too,

Resides in you.

" I was The Beggar at Your Door "

    

  You said that You'd stand by me forever,

You said that You'd forget me never,

           Then Why You gave not alms to the beggar,

Who stood knocking at Your door?

You said that You care not for Beauty,

You said that nothing on earth is Ugly,

Then Why by You was refused She,

Who came begging at Your door?

How soon You started praising Beauty,

How soon You found me Ugly,

And thus, You refused Me.

When I came begging at Your door...

" Low - Class - Tramps "

I’m one of

Those,

Whom you call,

Low – class- tramps.

I’m found

Everywhere,

Doing almost

Every work.

Sometimes

I’m seen

At the bus-stands,

And sometimes

At the railway station.

Filthily clad in

Noisome clobber.

Sometimes

I’m found

Carrying loads.

And sometimes

Picking up rags.

Sometimes

I’m found

Washing utensils

And sometimes

Seeking for

Leftovers

Among them.

I feed on, what

You throw away.

And wear, what

You find useless.

And yet sometimes

My clothes

Look gorgeous

For often

I pick- pockets

As

Heavy wallets

Tempt me!

And I buy

Clothes from

Second-hand marts!

The men

Of my lots

Are found

Drunk on roadsides

Sometimes

Teasing the women

Of your lots!

And sometimes

Whistling Bollywood songs.

But

Do not the men

Of your lots

Do the same?

…Well…

Perhaps…

In a

Sophisticated way!

And the women…

Of my lots

Are found

Holding a weeping child,

Begging all the while.

They,

Shy not to beg,

But you

May to give.

But still…

Some of you

Show pity

And thus

Grows their business!

I’m one of

These,

Whom you call

‘Low – class – tramps’.

Found in

Slums and ghettos

And often

Encroaching

Your lands

And the

Public pavements!

The most detestable

Yet

The most wanted

For doing

The detestable tasks!

I’m one of

Those,

Whom you call

‘Low – class – tramps’.

And

The so called‘Uncouth – rouge