god · poem · Poetry · religion

Change -IV

They
Who worshipped
Discovered myth
In their belief
And rejected their religion
I was stranded
In my temple.

Featured Image- Day of the God (Paul Gauguin, 1894)

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dreams · love · poem · Poetry

Free Fall

I don’t dream of flying.
No.
The dream of flying
comes with the fear of falling.
Instead,
I dream of falling,
Along with my inhibitions
And fears.
I want to fall off a cliff,
A high mountain,
Stripped off my fears
One by one.
Letting go of everything
That I have,
Until I have nothing
Nothing but my soul.

As I fall deeper,
I become light,
A cotton wool,
A cloud.
Maybe on my way
I shall become a rain drop

Maybe when it’s time
To touch the ground
My wings will open
And I shall fly.

(Featured Image- Ron Griswold)

blogs · LGBT · love · poem · Poetry · relationships · society

Taboo

Let our love be a taboo
Hidden in the deeps
Of our hearts.
Let’s not let it out.
Let’s not speak of it.
Cross your heart and I will, mine
For the world is a cruel place
It ruins all that’s virgin
And kills all that’s life
It can’t keep a secret.
Good things don’t last
And rare ones often get extinct.
If they won’t understand
Why even give them a chance?

agony · art · blogs · chastity · Painting · poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

Monsters

I paint monsters for living
Sea monsters and the flying ones.
Their beards grow by day
Their hands everywhere
Touching and feeling me
Inappropriately.
Sometimes my mind hurts
When they pierce it with their claws
Trying to find their birthplace.

I sit for days,
at the brink of my chair
Computing the cost of what I have created
Not the paint and the brush
But the imagination which I have let out
So vividly that now I see these monsters
On every wall I face,
Same canines, same claws,
Conniving against me,
A conspiracy, a killing
An assassination
Not of me
But my mind.
But then,
What’s a body without its mind?
What would be left of me if they succeed?

blogs · love · marriage · old age · Poetry · relationships · Uncategorized

Promise – IV

Years later, when
Time will be old and wrinkled,
When kids will have their kids
And I will lose all my teeth,
When you will need a third limb
For your daily needs,
When no one will care
About us being in love,
When the mirror
Would blatantly lie,
Don’t believe him,
Just use my glasses and not yours
And through my eyes,
You will still be beautiful
And I will still be charming
I promise.

Featured Image- Old Couple or Musician (Salvador Dali, 1930)

blogs · love · marriage · Poetry · relationships · Uncategorized

Promise – III

When our boy is out there,
Playing, hurling himself into the mud,
When our girl is with him,
Beating him, like girls always do,
When the scene makes you smile,
And your mind wanders to the past
That was different and difficult,
You look out for me,
But where am I?
‘Right behind, Ma’am’, I say,
Your tea is with me.
Just the way you wanted,
You smile,
Just the way I promised,
To love,
Then, now, forever.

blogs · love · marriage · poem · Poetry · relationships · Uncategorized

Promise – II

When world is done shouting,
And silence is making your tongue heavy
Like a bad taste, pukish
I will let your head collide with my chest
Your hair scattered on my belly, crimson
Like blood at a murder scene
Your vermilion smeared on my shirt, crimson
Like a bullet through my chest.
I die in that moment of mum,
In that moment of mum, we live.
We will live through it,
I promise.

blogs · people · poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

Underworlds

Beneath our bodies beyond our souls
We keep a few secrets.
There is so much within
That no one knows
No one can and no one should
The ashes of cigarettes we say we don’t smoke
The apathy in love we say we do
The cringe in the calls we have with parents
The lust in coffee we share with someone
Who is ‘just a friend’
We are good people, God fearing and all
We can’t cuss, can’t hate, can’t deny
So we bury
What we feel,
In the underworlds of our hearts
Simmering with smokes and lies.

birds · blogs · LGBT · love · poem · Poetry · society · Uncategorized

Let’s Rise In Love

Let’s fall in love.
Why shouldn’t we?
Just because you are you
And I am I?
‘Don’t Do it!’
The society would say, I know.
But that is what societies are for.
They have always been like that,
Trying to hold us back on grounds
Which don’t exist for birds
Like us, me and you.

Let them draw their own roads
While we fly high above,
Flapping our wings of love.

Why fall?
Let’s rise in love.

birds · blogs · love · nature · poem · Poetry · relationships · superstitions · Uncategorized

Two Starlings

They say
Two starlings seen at once
Is a good omen.

Two starlings sit
On opposite ends of a porch.
It is impossible to see them at once.
You say,
Don’t look at just one. It’s bad omen.

I bring handful of chickpeas
And spread at our feet.
They flutter their wings at once
I look at you rolling eyes, smile
Two starlings turn into good omen.

They finish the chickpeas in haste
And return to their opposite ends
No more on talking terms with each other.
Two starlings are now back to being bad omen.

(Featured Image- Starlings by Anna Wright)

blogs · love · poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

You need to be loved

Sometimes,
When you are ‘very’ angry
Don’t eat and become ‘hangry’
You need to be fed like a child.

Like a child,
When you sit in the corner
ballooning your cheeks,
A conscious effort must be made
to understand how you feel.

Sometimes,
it is absolutely entailing
That I apologize to you
Even if it is your fault.

Sometimes,
You need to be kissed
On every part of you,
Parts I can’t see
But you have.
You need to be kissed until
You giggle with hand over your mouth
And say ‘Stop it!’

Sometimes,
You need to be hugged,
Until you hug back,
And smile.

Sometimes,
You,
need to be loved.

art · blogs · earth · poem · Poetry · Uncategorized · winter

Winter’s final assault

Outside, the Sun rests
In the laps of his mistresses,
The rays, gorgeously gravitating
Towards the earth, still nursing
Her wounds of winter,
Covering her naked self with fallen leaves
Of a dying tree, who has fought bravely,
A battle that was not meant to be won.
The window pane has a splotch of fog
Perhaps the fist mark of our nemesis,
Spring is yet to prepare and
Summer is stuck in far east
We must escape before
The moon turns pale again.
Bring out the boats,
We must skate through this icy river.
He will come back, one more time
For his final assault, the winter.

Featured Image- ‘The Winter Scene’ (Hendrick Avercamp, 1620) 

art · poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

Strangers to Impatience

We sit in circles
Around the bonfire
Which melts the flesh of wood
To relieve our tired bones
We recite poetry to each other,
Poetry like this moment,
Like an estuary, saline yet serene
We know the end is near
Hence, a breather is warranted
A final halt by the sea
Only a few miles to cover
Before we reach to part ways
Where this singular road breaks
Into distinct destinies
We have taken our timely
Steps, Careful and consternated
Perhaps we deserve this moment,
The melody of the roaring sea
This Stark vulnerability of the naked sky
Shy and Shrinking in fear as he watches
Us, creating new stars with sparks of crackling wood
As our poetry rises with smoke,
Turning the moon’s face ashen.
We have waited so long for this moment,
To turn the sky starry again,
For We want our Vincent back,
Where he belongs, among us
We, the strangers to impatience.

journey · lie · poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

You don’t know me, do you?

Dear! I have to go,
Somewhere I haven’t been,
Where? You may ask!
Where? I don’t know.

I have to do something,
Something I haven’t done
What? You may ask.
What? I don’t know.

I want to love
Someone I haven’t met
Whom? You may ask
Whom? I don’t know.

I want to live before I die
Alas! I haven’t yet
How? You may ask
How? I don’t know.

I want to die once I know
Enough I must know
When? You may ask
When? I don’t know.

Why? You may ask
Because you don’t know,
Oh but I do know!
Oh but I do know!

humanity · love · poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

Human Rights

Human Rights

Are all we ever had,

have and wanted

One way or the other.

Romanticized, fantasized

By those who are deprived.

Taken from them,

abused, locked away

By those who didn’t find them worthy.

Either way it has been a hot potato,

not handled with enough care,

reeking through revolutions

of sweat and blood, all unnecessary

dying one war at a time,

So many wars, so many deaths.

fractured, leaking like a gas jar,

somehow condensed and put

into one day, unceremoniously

By those who were

neither deprived nor deprivers

10th December, announced

like the birth of Christ

As if it would matter

As if they care.

poem · Poetry · society · Uncategorized

Living Like Laymen

Laymen lead an interesting life,

They know things but not so much,

Speaking not to be heard

Reading just enough to be pleased

Too paltry to be written upon

Incomprehensible often and flustered

They debate sans a conclusion

They can’t be contained and don’t care

They don’t exist in democracy, debates and journals

After all, they are laymen,

Their opinions don’t matter.

Only if they knew more than they do.

blogs · love · pain · poem · Poetry · relationships · Uncategorized

Unhinged

Don’t leave me just yet,
Stay for a while,
let me be lost,
enchanted by the magic
that I still see in you.
Allow me to love you madly,
to bite you, scratch you,
to omit the difference,
between the blood and rouge on your cheeks.
I want you to forget about your beauty,
I want you to hate the mirror.
Why can’t you just love me,
Unhinged, unreal, as I am?
We will be gentle to each other,
I promise.

depression · journey · life · poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

Collision Points

We walk around in circles,

Trying to keep up with our roads

There are no trees, no sacred fire,

no holy hymns, no vows waiting to be taken.

We have not committed to anyone, anything

Sincerely, there is no promise made,

between ourselves either.

We are happy this way,

On our different roads,

keeping an eye on one another,

finding collision points,

maybe intentionally.

 

art · childhood · confusion · destiny · dreams · happiness · journey · life · roads · travel · travelling

Road back home!

The road back home is well known

Unlike the one ahead of me

The horizons are familiar

Contrasting the ones yet to see

The road back home greets me with smile

Every time I step onto it

Much to the dismay of the darkness ahead

The streets are always well lit

The road back home is full of scars

But my valor is what they showcase

The infidelity of the future succumbs

To the exhibition of these medals I possess

The road back home gives me nerve

To look into the eyes of the unknown

To walk past the fires and the bergs of ice

Which my path shall be prone

The road back home defines the legacy I shall leave

A record the moment of end shall see

When my soul shall decide to forsake my being

I shall sleep with pride glory and glee…

agony · chastity · happiness · loneliness · night · past · poem · Poetry

Balcony!

Days are easy, full of sun and men and so,

I wave at them often and they revert with a smile

Nights are different, sans light sans shadows, not even mine

Stars too far from my casement.

Every night, I stare a blank sky,

dark, desolate, carrying an old moon with rashes

My heart no different.

In my balcony I stand, facing the winds who talk

Trying to hear them whisper

For they often talk about me

They bring the memories from my glorious past

One of these nights, I will bribe them to take me back

The winds pass too soon, in a moment or two

Leaving me with my barren present soaked in my own salt

Stars still don’t show up, they don’t come my way too often.

Words have taken a sabbatical lately,

My pen pining for them

I often try to read off the old scribbles

Scratches on my glasses don’t help though

The creases in the bed, I leave them untouched

They remind me of wrinkles on my face

I live in a mess, things hurled haphazardly inside

But I keep my balcony decorated

Passersby seldom care for what is inside

They judge what they can see, the balcony.

I stand there, hiding my present behind a hideous beard n broken glass,

Showing them a smile, borrowed from my past

They can never tell!

domestic violence · happiness · humanity · lie · life · marriage · people · Poetry · poverty

A happy couple!

Down the lane of thunderland

Is a little portal that opens inwards

Even in the dark gloomy hours

Life blossoms Behind the closed doors

there lives an old shabby cobbler

They have seen him mending shoes

They have seen him tore and tight

But never did they see him sans a smile

There also lives an old lady, his wife probably

Sewing clothes all day all night long

She has not seen the world out a lot

But she speaks truth, wisdom whenever she does

They call them a happy couple

Happy sans pennies sans children sans much adieu

But do they lie?

art · chastity · confusion · gallery · humiliation · life · misery · pain · people · Poetry · walk

Gallery

Every day I pass by

I see a gallery passing all along the roads I walk

No matter where I go and where I reach

It is there all through my custom

Countless doors sans glass sans wood

I see people always walking out of its portal and people going in

Today when I passed beside that gallery

A decision was made in instant mood to pay homage to the artifacts held up by the place

I searched for a gatekeeper or a ticket checker at least

But instead I found someone whose mere presence shocked me

I found myself framed in there as if a mirror was placed opposite to my being

My face was a moon of winters and my eyes ashen like just to say the least

The people saw that work of art and I was one of them

I was there as if I never existed

Unnoticed unheard unseen they saw what I say was a mirror again with glass nowhere nearby

There were people all around caged in their own mirrors or as I say

Drowning in the sea of sorrow screaming for more pain

Standing there we were all admiring what we saw

We all seemed confused and we all felt embarrassed at our own state

Eyes glued to our humiliation and smile glued to our lips

As if trapped in unseen cobwebs we screamed chastised by the pain

We tried to run only to find cliffs ahead

We drowned in our own salt

The wounds we had were treated with the salt we produced

Still that smile was there

It seemed unreal, unfamiliar with the way to escape this unknown adversary

I wanted to escape, my teeth bathing in the salt flowing from the ever flowing waterfalls.

The taste was bad now also grinding the recipe with my crimson blood

Seeing no other path to tread I closed my eyes with all I had

Last I remember was when I was back to my customary walk

Sans the crimson marks sans the salt dried down my cheeks sans that smile…

dreams · india · Poetry · pressure · society · unemployment

The Bus Stop

Standing by one noisy Monday traffic

He goes easily unnoticed chewing on his paan

Waiting for a bus to stop, a horn to blow

Scuffed shoes exhibit his passion for these paths

Experience peeks through his thinning hair

These roads are oh so well known

Sun looks down at him with all his pitiful light

The paled white shirt definitely deserves a hard wash

As he slowly drags himself out of yet another building

Denials don’t hassle him anymore

He casually hurls his credentials back into his worn out satchel

The twilight quietly sees him home

Ma looks jovial as ever

Over the years, she has mastered mending her face as soon as he appears

Her smile is his only escape, and she knows

A bedridden father groans feebly, for he wins no bread anymore

And by the way, who weds the sister of a loafer?

If only he could escape his mortification, even that is just a wishful notion

Nuptials were sung in neighborhood last night

Someone must have raised his case too

For, Ma did return abruptly

They say a man never cries, but they must not have known him

For his pillows are often wet, eyes frequently crimson

He does wear a disguising smile nonetheless

He often stares through the stars from his casement

Wondering if education was his sin

For his qualifications don’t allow him to carry bricks

The night passes in slumber, changing sides

Wishing if he could succumb silently in bed

After hours of tumult, sleep finds him somehow

The Sun wakes again, as he carefully leaves the alarm clock dozing

He shaves, shines his shoes, wears his best

Fates don’t shine with dates, do they?

Tuesday traffic is as noisy as it was on Monday

He stands by, unnoticed, chewing on his paan, waiting

For a bus to stop, a horn to blow

A bus might take him away and never bring back

He won’t be missed though, not for a day

Another chap shall take his place, with millions in the offing.

india suffers from the issue of educated unemployment and underemployment more than any other place.
I hope someone connects.

(copyright Anurag Chaudhary 2014)
earth · humanity · loneliness · Poetry

Alienated?

Eyes opened when it was still dark,
the night was whining making herself stark.
the moon was shining high, blowing winds in retard,
sun trapped between two hills in his backyard.
confusion persisted whether dawn followed or dusk preceded
somehow night and day felt succeeded.
in his own little yurt he felt uneasy,
the same old part of the globe once made him cosy.

the world had changed,
adaptation was far fetched.
a sudden cold wave had replaced the warm tropical breeze
somehow life around him had deceased.
where were the people who once resided the city?
the foul dead soil was feeling pity.
the scene was disturbing,
as if he was the left trash after a disaster curbing

his mind was all but numb,
no wonder he had throat choked of lump

somehow the calamity, the unknown and the nature had mated
in his own world, he was left alone, alienated…

destiny · dreams · friends · Poetry · talking

Hibernation

I beg your say apprehending appreciation

I have decreed to stay in hibernation

Not much shall be heard from me

Let silence be my semblance, complaint be a far-off enemy

For I have spoken way too much than the power I command

Let my words flow only when time demands

I have to offer a lot more to the world

So many stories left to be told

Stories about life, about death

Lore of love, tales of faith

Let my eyes be the casements to selfdom

Let me face my ego, let me gain my freedom

For long I have belied my truth

For long I have lived in Ruth

The questions within scream for empathy

For long I have given them nothing but apathy

No more shall I lie to my sinking soul

For long I tried to sneak in discordant roles

Let me observe, comprehend my existence

Let me bathe in light for once

For a while, let me sleep in the lap of serenity

For a while, let me fall back in ambiguity

For once let the answers flow by

Whatever they might be, good bad or wry

Let me face the elephant in the room

Let me visit my dreadful doom

Let me vanish from your eyes for a while

I promise to the realm I shall return my servile

Someday you might find my body deceased

My name forgotten, my legacy ceased

But,

I shall be present as an essence of friendship, suave

Smiling at abodes of compassion, places of love…

childhood · children · destiny · dreams · friends · night · Poetry · poverty · secrets · sky · stars · talking · winter

Talking to the stars

During those melancholy midnights when slumber sleeps far away

His concrete walkway bed seems an enemy as the night quietly passes

His eyes wide open, brimmed with dreams undaunted by the forces of reality

Reality that embraces his fragile frame with all the compassion and warmth,

While other kids of his age are treated with the tales of moon every night,

He is often seen befriending the neighbors of the lunar god who reside beyond the dark.

Stars like him back too, he is different, they often discuss,

Unlike others, he never tries to count them or find them when they are lost

He simply goes to them when he is lonely and his dreams are dwindling

He goes to them to seek their light and company

Unlike others, he is not finicky in his choice nor is he clichéd

He talks to them all, whoever is available,

Even to those who were left alone when galaxies were to be formed

And them, the miserable ones, who couldn’t fit in any constellation

They like him, o yes they do,

They like him for his dreams might be surreal

But he plans them oh so well in his little mind

Now, he knows a few dirty starry secrets too

For one, those tiny pin-ups aren’t quite fond of the moon

The self proclaimed wannabe lunar god who is smaller than the smallest of them

He has also unlocked a few myths with their help,

For one, not all of them belong to the Milky Way

That there is no such grandma with a spinner or a boy named frost on the moon

Stars have shared all they know but he must stay hush

For only then, his dreams can come true

They show him their scripts, as testimony to their vows

For they say about his destiny, it’s written in the stars.

Poetry

Mr. Gentleman

We all have songs we sing in various moods. Every couple finds solace in humming something. Well, “Mr. Gentleman” is a song, which this couple likes to hum. Its their song. What are the lyrics? Doesn’t matter. Just sing along them! 

Whenever she is sad

She pretends to be mad

When a smile hides away from her face

And I have none of its trace

When I have no backup plan

I sing… Mr. Gentleman…

When the garden isn’t neat

She has work and no time to beat

When she tends to be too busy

Life sounds a bit uneasy

I, the broom, the trash can

We all sing together…Mr. Gentleman

When we are in the market

The grocer is the target

She saves a penny or two

After lots of hula-hoo

She does a good bargain

I hear her hum in her breath…Mr. Gentleman

When the guests spoil the party

I tend to be too hearty

Her mind boggles out

She wants to have a shout

I take a spoon and hit a pan

and whisper in her ears… Mr. Gentleman

When my little guy’s grades mirror my past

The poor lad with folded hands taking all the blast

His petite teary eyes making me chastised

The wrath of Math making my dinner jeopardized

We both say sorry like a man

and mutter quietly… Mr. Gentleman

In the backyard every eve

When the day silently takes the leave

We are alone sitting together

her hand on my cheek, like a peacock’s feather

Unknowingly yet wishfully everything happens again

it was about us the song, it still is, Mr. Gentleman.

Poetry · poverty · winter

A winter morning!

One pale winter morrow,

A man was trying to sleep draping all his quilts

Oh it was so cold and sun was so lukewarm

The unsuccessful poor man was out of all his wits.

Did I say the mattress had its share of holes?

Did I say the quilts were torn?

Did I say his wife had died last night?

Leaving him dry and alone to mourn…

Through the big parts apart of the grass roof

The sun would throw his rays on his lids

His hut was in the marketplace to make the things worse

The same marketplace where lived a widow with her five crying kids…

I wish he could have slept sound that morrow

But his only sweater was his skin

Yeah the poor old sweater of his gave way to things to come

Sun shone bright over his dead body pale, lean and thin…

Poetry

Let it go!

It sometimes happen as such,

that people don’t care for you much

Enraged, thrilled, you roll up your fists

Decided, to have a fighting feast

A slugfest is all you can think of

Looking for a proper payoff

Your mind rumbles

Your lips mumble

Your eyes show crimson in them

An eye for an eye is the fairest game

But behold! Just wait for a moment

Before you do so, let me put my 2 cents

Look into the eyes of the mirror

And beware! A monster hides there

You may faint out

Or run away with a shout

Don’t want to see him?

Then sneak out like the little Jim

Why keep grudges?

Life runs fine without crutches

Take a deep breath in and breathe out some

Keep a bit of mum

Why make a row?

Better, just let it go!

Poetry

Genius!

With eyes closed in the crowd, his mind bustling
Feet around him, hundreds of them, all hustling

Silent as if he was not there, swerving the crowd
Like a moon on a new moon night feeling grumpy, feeling proud.

He was too good too long in his talent
His experience covering up his effort even when it was most blatant.

One fine night, someone caught up his theft
Stunned he was, his mouth gaped.

He asked the genius, how he did that,
The answer was silence, and a little pat…

Poetry · terrorism

Gunners Of The East

Personal note to readers: This is a sarcastic work. WIth the recent massacre in Paris, which has followed several other equally antihumanity activities in all parts of the World. Palpably, these people, whether, ISIL, TALIBAN, LASHKAR etcetera don’t belong to any religion race or nation. They don’t qualify as human beings.

There is a disney-song like touch to it. If you get it you may be able to hum it along.

Behind the golden paths we tread

Beyond the fairy tales we read

There is a world on its own

And believe me it’s the only one

Folks call them animals and beasts

They are the gunners of the east

The dust rises with the rising sun

Bloodsheds for them are just too much fun

To hell with love, forget goodness

Fear and hatred they harness

In cold dead deserts they feast

They are the gunners of the east

What if they don’t have a motive?

That itself makes the pleasure superlative

When the 47’s and 56’s play their zings

Along the tunes they make merry, they sing

A few million corpses worry them the least

Because they are the gunners of the east

They don’t live for what we call life

For 2 little kids and a pretty wife

Nah! It’s too stereotype a story to yearn for

They earn their own legends, make their own lore

They live to die, to kill, to feast

They are the gunners of the east

I wonder if they do it for pennies or land

For they simply invade, trample, conquer and disband

Not a single one of us got the guts to check them

Neither can their consciences put them to shame

They aren’t hermits and they aren’t priests

They are the gunners of the east.

Poetry

Shades of His Father!

He comes out of a crowded cab covered in dust and sweat,

The day full of exhaustion shows in his slumbering tired eyes,

Carrying his briefcase in one hand, settling the glasses with other,

Shades of his father are prominent.

Crawling little lad of his, screeching “Papa” reminds him of himself,

His wife’s disgust on him coming late is not new either,

The mirror reminds him of the damage his buccal has gone through due to tobacco,

A tummy has quietly protruded its way outwards

Shades of his father are prominent.

As the springs have gone by, he now likes to keep his manhood close to his lips.

He never did when he was a college chicken

He doesn’t believe in painting his ageing head black

Every day, he stares through the portrait of a man, who looked so similar,

Shades of his father are prominent.

The responsibilities have brought his shoulders down

But he never complains, his father never did,

He has learnt to smile through pains and perils

He breathes a sigh of relief when someone points,

Shades of his father are prominent.

Poetry

Age of eighteen!

Personal note: This I wrote on my 18th birthday. It has been four years and this is certainly not my best work, rather, at times it sounds childish. But it still is a sweet reminder of that morning and very special! Enjoy!

     Revolts of all kind

        Battles going in mind

        Thoughts making you suffer

         Whole world looks duffer

          Trying to color the world into a marvelous painting

          Such is the age of eighteen.

Family advices are not heard

Schools and colleges seem weird

Amazing ideas only coming into your brain

All other scholastics flowing into drain

Life looks like a blockbuster in making

Such is the age of eighteen

          Crushes are transformed into true love

          Heart keeps flying like a dove

          Always willing to prove you on a second chance

          All wonders look ordinary in front of romance

          Confidence keeps on dripping

          Such is the age of eighteen

New powers are felt

Even iron can be melt

Life looks nothing but treason

Always proving it with enough reasons

World seems a podium of seeking

Such is the age of eighteen

          Always discovering new auras

          Life opening up as box of Pandora

          Nights ending up sleepless in search of destiny

          From classrooms to shows of matinee

          Resulting into explosions within

          Such is the age of eighteen

It is the best age

Bird trying to break the cage

It’s the transition from youth to adult

Giving the person status of cult

It gives the chance of inner digging

Such is the age of eighteen

Poetry

Years to come…

Years to come will have some stranger looking days

A past behind, a future looking at our face

Things which were said will be memories

And words between the lines will make us feel sorry

A few matters of facts will be grave to digest

Solutions to troubles tough to suggest

Years to come will see more regrets

Some coming to ages some revealed secrets

There shall be a sense of reprisal

An awkward wait for an unknown arrival

Yokes will make our vision blurred of personal truths

For the tears to cleanse our eyes reminding of the lost Ruth

Years to come will see us graying our heads

Experienced enough of life’s thousand shades

Our eyes will have a pair of lenses on them

Covering the past from future like a fabric’s hem

Standing in the crowd, life will still be alone

Loving others but no love to own

Years to come will have imprints of years gone by

Of each truth said and of every single lie

Among the changes piling up

There will be a constant I will safely keep

My heart will always beat for you

No matter what you did or what you’ll do…