Buzzkill

things are serene,
as long as you are you,
things are fine,
as long as you are pure.

a putiry coming from innerself,
gets spiked when you anticipate
a happy aura from the other shelf,
riddled with its own termite

and when it bites you,
damn a major buzzkill,
worse than waterboarding,
awakening you to a reality,
where every one look gory,
and you find no amusement
in the company of the innocents,
withdrawing away to yourself,
to get back to what you were,
an unquestionable individuality,
in its purest form,
manifesting into this sustainable
mother of all eternal emotions,
all praise and glory to... self-love.

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And the train doesn't halt,
world passing by unreachable,
i wave and it's not my fault,
if i don't see them waving back.

standing tall at the exit,
feeling the wind blowing into the face,
eyes closed, faint memories of hurt
happiness, epiphany, revolving

passing clouds, drenching rains,
nauseating hypocrisies, that weak innocence,
people cheating their own heart
for a moral sense defined by someone else.

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mirage

In the middle of the desert,
wandering around for a hope,
and distant mirages of hurt,
struggling hard to cope.

just a drop that's enough,
of all that ocean that's you,
to break this hand-cuff,
to liberate this soul, that's true

ticking away the ruthless time,
stealing away those cent and dime,
fiddling around for that lost rhyme,
rushing to catch that last chime.

the only thing that I ever knew,
snatched away before it brew
into something transcendental,
into something fundamental.

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Random...

I wanted to write a lot.
I'd rather do it at a later event independent of the current events troubling me, so that I can make it a little unbiased.
Meanwhile, I'd have to go through this thoughtful torment troubling me to reach a solid conclusion.

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Reminder

I am not an avid book reader. In fact, the first book I ever read a book on my own will was Shidney Sheldon's "Tell Me Your Dreams". I am guilty, but hey, it was a good one! Then comes the "A medal of honor" by Jeffery Archer. And then I think, J D Salinger's "The Catcher in the Rye" which was followed by Love in the Time of Cholera, Five Point Someone, The Zahir, P G Wodehouse's What Ho!, Why men don't listen and women can't read maps, Hundred years of Solitude, Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy and thats it? I can't recollect!! That's too few a number of books read by someone who aspires to write! Exactly! I think it is essential. Whenever I read a book, I read it so slow and steady, praising each and every thought that went into a sentence formation, the words that were chose (looking at dictionary for the EXACT meaning that was meant for the tougher ones, rather than a vague one meant to understand the sentence) and the inherent meaning of life that they try to portray. The overall plot was barely a requirement to entice me into reading. Every moment and scene, I thought, was a sub-plot in itself.
Coming to the essential part, I am afraid of reading any more. I am afraid that my thoughts are being controlled by someone I don't even know personally. After every read, which I take a good full week, I am usually left with an aura binding me to discuss related things with friends. It's not a good sign, IMO. :)
And.. Oh! A fortnight ago, Odyssey bookstore called me about the availability of this book called "The Best Poems of the English Language" by Herold Bloom. They are late by almost four months! I guess it's too late. I had seen this book in Bombay when I was staying with Joshi during my extended period in my college. I used to visit and sit down in the Crossword books store, in Hiranandani, which was on my way to the campus. I remember checking out quite a few good books during that period.. especially that contained short stories so that I can give a quick read. There was this collection of French stories translated by some author.. the story which I can never forget was about this knight/warrior stuck in the middle-east deserts after a gruesome war.. who was in turn welcomed by a company filled with tenderness, a leopard (a female one). He kind of domesticates it and shows all kinds of affection which a cat lover ought to. No, its not beastiality your mofos! Anyway, the french warrior had to kill it at the end because "a leopard's acts are after all, well, 'leopardy'". Back to where I was, so I had checked this book out on poems during that period. It's an absolute marvel. It had an introduction to the 'art of reading poetry', definitions of five types of poetry which was followed by the unlimited chapters, each dedicated to great poets the world has ever known. It was hard bound and priced at no less than INR 1100. I was financially broke and anyway I was never into buying books at that time. Then comes bangalore into picture, new friends and friend(s) who are into poetry. End of August 2008, I frantically search for this book to gift someone but ended up in just carrying a black forest cake to celebrate the event. August 2009 again reminded me of this book, but again ended up gifting a bunch of nonsensical books to fill the void. All through the august I searched literally everywhere for this book, Landmark-to-crossword-to-odyssey-to-bunch-of-tiny-book-stores-in-churchstreet. I told landmark, crossword and odyssey to call me ASAP if they find the book. Odyssey called me two weeks ago, frigging four months later. Went down last Sunday to the store and picked it up. The shop girl was protecting the book from others buying it.. by hiding it in the cupboard :). It was paper bound. The pages were not that high quality, seemed like a poorman's/lightweight-environment-conscious-print version. 738 bucks. The call from Odyssey reminded me. Of the good times. Like I get reminded every single fucking day. I gave a quick read of some of the initial pages. It was not amusing. Rather, I thought it was confusing. Two years ago, I did not feel so when I had read the same portion in Bombay. The book's contents never changed.. except for the degraded papers.