Thoughts Aren't Enough

The poems have lost touch with the meanings.

They don't look good.

They look forcefully written.

Just to fill the space.

Just to quench the thirst of the poet.

A major flaw recognised by all.

Except the originator.

For his is not to think but to write.

Just write spontaneously without thinking.

The meaning is not what he writes for

He writes to remain in touch with himself.

Lost as usual he always is.

His poems act as the compass.

'Tis way is north pal'

'Oh! tis s not da way'

There is a blockade and there is a blockage too.

Of feelings not trying hard to express themselves.

In the form of poem that he wants to write.

"See...I told ya"

'Tis poet is gone.....finisheed.....ain't ya'?

Cheers!!!!

In Love With Pain

The clouds don't cry.

For they are happy and won't comply.

They will only when the happiness reaches you.

And you understand its true meaning.

You sweat and cry.

And you are not happy.

Happiness is a state of spreading it.

So if the clouds are happy why don't they spread it?

Don't fill the glass if it is already full.

Don't wet the homo sapiens if they are full of sweat.

See, that's why clouds don't cry.

They know you need rain.

Your love for natural showers and drizzles.

But in love there is pain isn't it?

So there is no rain.

For the clouds love your pain.

And the way you spread it.

Cursing anyone available.

Self-made traffic jams.

A long stretch of thoughts.

Traffic lights of common sense.

Red with the heat generated by you.

Calm down to let the lights turn green.

Enjoy the pain to let the clouds understand.

That you understand.

That in love there is pain.

And after the pain there is rain.

Diamonds are forever

I intend to write a hot poem.

Will you help me make it hot?

The nature is already helping me.

We almost got half-boiled yesterday.

Imagine those half-boiled blonds!

Ah! they are hot, aren't they?

Any way this is going to be a crap hot poem.

Could someone write a poem with brains boiling?

Yes, a cold man who has lost all love for hot things.

Except the pelvic thrusts of bollywood babes.

Cheap but hot babes working rilly rilly hard to manage those thumkaas.

The coldest man in this planet can write the hottest poem.

I didn't say the coolest fool.

I said the coldest man and not guy.

You know it's crap I know it's crap.

Yet I write and you read. (not the first timers)

We are not fools.

We are diamonds and diamonds are for ever.

Are diamonds hot?

No they are cold; the coldest.

So let's ask the diamonds to write poems.

Hello diamonds, are you listening?

Are you still reading?

Why don't you just close this page and promise me never to come back?

You won't listen to me and I won't listen to you.

We still bluff each other.

We still love each other.

What about the hottest poem?

Do you still think it's possible to write that crap?

I believe in you.

So let's try to fix this hot potato.

You want to swallow it?

Okay, let's say you don't.

Then we will need someone to make the poem interesting.

Let's talk with diamonds.

Would you like to swallow it?

"Why not? We have been eagerly waiting for it."

Okay then let's start from you.

The hot poem by the coldest diamonds in the planet.

True Move

The pawns make the move.

Their whole fate is trapped- cornered

It's not a win of egos
It was always a fight for truth

And here they say-

Let the truth prevail.

The power of truth prevails.

Though not for an infinity

But the moments are sweet to cherish

And the feeling of being with the truth

Knowing its true power

Of letting things happen in the way they should

Keeps the pawns moving.

Hoping for that one in a million moves

To remain truthful.

The sword of Damocles

The ghosts come running with their arms out-stretched:

The moment you try to run away from them.

In the best of your times they arrive without knocking.

Taking you by surprise.

It is what the newspapers call "shock and awe".

Ruining your continuous introspection.

Of getting closer to your inner self.

Your practice is immediately threatened.

They are infact, in disguise, your character testers.

Soul and mind testers rather.

Your breathing becomes polluted and you become insecure.

A sense of uncleanliness binds you to the pole of frustration.

Beating you with a whip laced with spikes of non-realisation of anything.

You become captive and try hard to come out.

Therby falling in their redundant traps.

Traps which don't have doors and mazes with no catacombs.

It is not about solving the mystery.

Mysteries can be harnessed and satiated by reason and logic.

But you cannot harness evil for if you try you will be left with none.

Except evil.

Let it get you to your core displaying its DNA.

Once it is done it's finished.