Green Trees In Autumn.

After the poem I told my phone friend that ‘it isn’t about being honest anymore, it is about being clever’.

How wrong I was.

Being clever, I did write something that some people thought was really spectacular, but a friend who mattered a lot more ridiculed it, tore it down, spat at it. He asked me if there was a single line in the poem that was honest (quite honestly, I thought there might be one in the sixteen)but there wasn’t. He was the only person who saw through.

Any wonder he mattered more?

I saw now that the joy in writing comes from not words, but emotions. That the moment, you try to duplicate a feeling or create one, you make it much lesser an expression. That the glory doesn’t lie in belligerent praise, but in apt justification of the endeavour.

I see that there is absolutely no point in trying to express something I did not feel.I am sorry I tried.

If you are not true to the one thing that makes you, you lose it. Not to never come back again, but to just not be there then, as you try and try to be what you were.

Like green trees in autumn.

This Letter I write to you,my love

This letter I write to you, my love

My heart , My dreams , My beautiful word

These lines I feel are you, my love

My stake , My death , My Sinful mirth

These things I’d get for you my love

The stars, the rains, the evening sun

These things I’ll share with you love

A start, an end and a backward run

In Times I lived for you my love

I laughed , I danced , I breathed my best

For Times In you I lived my love

I hurt and fled, my friend of trust

So now I say this, my love

I love you still, I’ll love you just

For love you say I mean, my love

I love you still, I love you must

Hour,Another

Hour,Another sleep me strong
The intent from my thoughts have all worn
I pray all day but never see
What I've been doing
has been done to me.

You Think? 1

The Start is the hardest,and it is just the way it is.

I have had a lot of people telling me that the start is figuring out what I like to do, for what I think I was (as inevitable as it might have been) born to do.I have been told to find a purpose,actually I have been told to find a purpose and a tool that are the same.

What do you want to become?
I want to become a writer
Why do you want to become a writer?
So I can Write

The sense of purpose that is now driving us, I think is taking us far,yes,but I for one, fail to see the logic behind glorifying the auto metre reading more than talking about where it took us.

I am being celebrated.
Should you be?
Of course I should be,I have made a difference.
To?
A lot of people, and myself.
You think the people will now have changed?And have you?

I think the answer to that question would have to be the definite answer to your sense of purpose.Nothing will last forever, not even the change you have created. The question, I think is , what lasts more.The beautiful part about the 'Remembrance of a change' is that it destroys the very Change it once was.Evolution may then,be definetly be termed as a cosmic rule.So is then this sense of purpose so futile as I presently think it to be?Please tell me.

One might argue then, that Happiness is the answer, but a friend of mine may tell you that Happiness is just an other addiction.Then , Addiction would have to be the most powerful word. Hope,Love,Purpose,Faith,Life.Everthing seems to be one. Something We might have been just fine without,if never introduced to us.It is a scary thought.

I smoke
I never have
I am feeling just fine
I am feeling just fine too.

If yes, I guess then, Illusions really do form more of a reality,then reality itself. All structure , method and Purpose seems Sublime.
So do these words...

*What is truly liberating, is having a wiser friend.Even if he tells you liberty is just an illusion.*

Block

I am stuck now, not in space but in mind.
The more I try to see ,write or think different ,the more I understand that I am walking circles, on a tight rope with jeering and laughter. Life has now, forever become a balancing act with mocks playing at the back of my head.

Anger never felt so pure.

Perceptions show me fools everywhere I look, breeding quite belligerently. Taking in the air and never letting out, just sucking it more and more. Brains imprisoned by borrowed thoughts,Reason left unanswered, Preachings never questioned.

Writings that do not teach.


Perceptions tell me they are mutual .

Maybe, understanding that I don’t seem to be going further is actually edging forward. The wall that blocks might just be showing me the two new directions. Maybe, Living might shine through existence if only I let go of the urge to. While the only reason I'd let go, would be the hope of not losing it.

Tight rope in Circles. Again.

Filled with irony , life is filling it back .Contrasts, now seem ,are meant to be together.


In me, your love shall live
And mine shall die
With a sigh, end to the night
when you wake up,to the hurt and sting
talk about a wanderer who walked
some glorious ways to shame.

Felix

The cold seeped in,and the angst fell away..

When you walk a long straight road in a storm,with a friend to taste the rain with,and thunders to be shouted upon by,You'll feel god smiling at you from under the street lamp.

'This is Purity'-A Bohemian.

That was Purity.

The Rain Tasted Sweet,better than almost anything I ever drank down.It wasnt a thirst quenched.It wasn't what life usually offers you when you strive real hard to offer something back.It wasn't just Contentment,wasn't more.Could never have been measured.Happiness.

It was time wanting to see me smile and space trying to join in.An Entire Universe felt in drops.Drops that followed and joined.Lived and Dreamt.Conquered and Knelt.

Paranoia washed down the slopes.Gravity,finally seemed to have worked.

The water gave away when i put my feet down.I shaped it.I Splashed it around.I made waves and drowned entire worlds,Worlds that made Survival feel like an Irony.Worlds with stiffling days and freezing nights.Worlds without long roads to walk by in a storm.

I wanted it to go on.Because i knew I would never be back..

Continuum

With million dead,laughs
the rotting space
tired eyes dreamt, dim
your light,taken away
a life,blown hard on
the flame,to dance in pain

I restrain,
the urge to love
to hate,i find me
weak with pleasures,wrapped
tight under my stretched out arms
of grace.

smell rebellion
in,smokes of lazy content
hurting deep,the cigarette burn
of anger,the guarding angel
to sanity,impure
like the temple blood

write yourself
in a paper,crumple
the yearning,on the floor
dances madness,with maiden reason
trying to find,an extension of self
in the potrait drawn,of the dawn exposed
on a night that sings,of birth and end
in continuum.