Heap Of Words

Elsewhere in twentytwelve, somewhere to the close, She caps her doubts and fears and childhood In a message, in a bottle. She sets it free, the trapped fear, free in the bottle, Hopes she’ll smile when she'll find it on the other side of world and time, As she'll cap her ‘grown-up’ doubts once again In a message, in a bottle.  She hopes those fears that she trapped down, Shall not return, shall not come to pass And so she pushed the cork as tight as could  In the bottle. She hopes those fears that she set free Shall drift along, far from her, across the world In the bottle.

You brush the hair off my face, As you would a tear tomorrow? Do I dare to smile now, dare to place My heart at your feet, and borrow A golden hope and dream to chase?

While i'd hate comebacks (ref: post below this), was suitably silenced and appropriately humbled :) More often than not, they appear to be The staff to lean, the call for company. The shoulder to cry on but the butt of all kicks; For all roses they get, a million thorns too must prick. And in spite of this, the once you break a heart it's said, "You know my friend, they ARE just men!" You know not how-when what went through their minds, Instead, (pause) happily putting on your blinds, You sit in one corner writing this piece While seething with pain, his heart still bleeds. And you know my friend, though they just "act like men", Your stanza is more sense when substituted with "women"!

More often than not, they appear to be The staff to lean, the call for company. The shoulder to cry, the ass to kick; The roses they get, the thorns they prick. You know not though, just how and just when, They break your heart, and act like men .

Raindrops srtiking my forehead, First the caress, and then the shower. I get soaked in seconds, water in my bones, And then the pleasure abandons; I remember... How we loved to dance in the rain, You proclaiming my derangement, and I yours. But venture we would, into Gods' offer Of rain, and closeness, and us... and bliss. The ground that rushed to meet the drops The drop that rushed to kiss my cheek Oh it would, were your hand not near, I'd lie if say, I'd prefer the rain. The curtain of bliss that bars The world from us, and us from them The outside, suddenly rendered private Its neither you nor I, it was just us.

A regular evening. I know not how, nor when. The walls come crashing down, of a sudden. Its like my world was sitting in a nutcracker , Waiting to be crushed to peices, biding its time. Who put it there? the Gods? Or Fate sublime? I sift about the ruins, salvaging scrap, and memories; Hope to rebuild maybe, and stem the agonies. But gaping craters are all I find around, Nothing to fill the bitter voids with; Except maybe, absurd hope and homespun myths.

What won't I give today, For a humble solitude and space to pray- More mental than physical- and go as far as you can please, For I'm still smarting from your blows. For I'm bitten today, let me be shy; At times, I suppose, its ok to cry.

I'm done... procrastinating. I'm done... overrating Things that dont matter Or even exist... more the latter.

Once more, the affected display of emotion, Once more, those promises, never to see fruition, Once more, those gifts I never sought of you, Once more, the absence when I thought of you. The primping and preening, when you go 'out', That smile of expectance, that almost screams aloud, The late coming back, excuses that challenge belief, Oh how I dread those pockets, that forgotten handkerchief! I always questioned my deserts when we Found each other; rather, you took me; Plain that I were, and that you were not, Scared me then, and now explains a lot. I know she would be pretty, but has she the heart To live by your side, and never to depart! The smile in your face, the spring in your walk, The guilt in your face, and that we no longer talk. The hours I spend in the parlor, bettering my share Of what God had me granted, with fruitless repair. How I wish that you would come clean, and that, I might take leave of this guesswork, you and this flat. I know I lack proof, but a woman ...

I know it before you think it, And you know that I know this; You know I get you, and you me: Yet there's this that I know That you'd want not- I don't know why- And never will... a girl like me . You want a 'she'- and I know who- You paint me with shut eyes then, And then you blink and look at me: "I want a girl like that", I know its not me. You see my smile, and my hidden pout, And think it won't matter... to a girl like me . I wish I were her, the 'she' you want; But that I am. I know not what else. You want a me, and yet you don't Even notice... a girl like me . I'd better me, if you just smile, Look at me and say That you might just want... a girl like me ...

The easiest to begin, the toughest to end, Procrastination, I think, is much like the Fiend That casts- of tempt and greed- that fine woven net, And departs with a wake, of sorrow and regret. The 'What if.."s and "Had I.."s, little more of use, Than that of lament, and an afternoon's muse. Yet, procrastinate I do, not learn to recognize, The dangling carrot, the fiend in disguise. Not learn from mistakes, no lessons from the past, "Oh! there'll be time...", Time that runs out fast. The eleventh hour that comes, a sob and a sniff, And there I go again- "Had I..", "What if.."...

It is like alcohol. So bitter at first that you want to get it out of your system that very instant. Addictive when it starts settling comfortably in your head. It establishes comfort zones. It makes you want to resist change. It engenders satisfaction; in the very least, satisfaction that allows you to come to terms with your ineptitudes. It provokes thought, leads some of us to effusiveness on inert substrates (like paper). Concurrently, it avoids arguments or defensive stances. It makes one dislike acquaintances and value the ones closer to heart. It looks like a necessary condition for growing up. On this note, though in an entirely different vien, I am reminded of Alexander Pope's Ode to Solitude: I 1How happy he, who free from care 2The rage of courts, and noise of towns; 3Contented breaths his native air, 4 In his own grounds. II 5Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 6W...

If there is one, of all emotions known, Inimical to the core, FEAR and FEAR alone. I fail to love, for fear of rejection, I fail to aspire, for fear of dejection. I fail to express, for fear of ridicule, I fail to be me, lest the '’me' is uncool! I choose the lesser peak, afraid I may fail, I chose the path most taken, all exhorts to no avail. I fight for hollow opinions, afraid of losing face, Yet put up with violations, afraid to attract disgrace. Afraid to be the first, I choose to simply follow, Deify the few less afraid, with servitude hollow. I avoid a moonlight stroll, for fear of the dark, I suppress my ebullience, for fear jealous neighbors hark. Oh! Was I to shed this mantle, this grounding chain! Oh! Was I to experience joys the same as pain! Oh! Was I to cast off fear, to make this burden light; Oh! Was I to experience life unhindered, unafraid to take flight.

They just walk into your head, They don't care to knock, or weigh timing, They whine for attention, other thoughts misled, And before you know it, they've begun rhyming! They lead you to aha! s, reduce you to aah! s, They cut you to quick; they elude when you hunt; They stoop to gibberish, worth less than Blah! They're the weapon of wit, best used when blunt. They drip with passion, tenderness, ecstasy, They explode with humor, or tickle like a child, They're magic carpets, woven of threads of fantasy; They the ooh! s and aah! s; screams of girls gone wild. They're the perfect expression, every woman covets, They're the power of a saint, oracle and presidents, They can mean the whole world, can be empty threats, They can uplift the masses, or charge up regiments! They can unite nations, yet put them into lots; Witty when measured, when unchecked- convey delusion. A score of weird symbols tied up in a knot, They bless humanity with the power of expression.

Sometimes, I like to feel the tear As it rolls down the cheek; Sometimes, When I get too much to bear, I wish that I were weak. Always, Proudly, Pride's the virtue of the strong; Always, Proudly? The Strong's too proud to be wrong... Sometimes, I wish that I were less Proud of the perfect self I'd one day be, Sometimes, I wish to accept the mess That the Present is- and so the Future be. Ambition, Indefatigable that it is, More of a burden, than a bliss. Never, I wipe the rolling tear. I'd rather let it dry Never, Abandon the Pride held dear, Nor give up the chance to try. In the age of innocence, when ambition was asnore , I read of the deer who set about to explore The perfume that teased it- day out and in- And wasted its days chasing, that ever lay within.

The pencil, Sharpened and ready. Fountains, Bursting to spring forth. Uncork The wine- let it flow! Dried up? Why is it so? "Come." I say, But today it won't. Pointless This exercise- I stop. "But do Come tomorrow." I implore. And thus A whim I chase; an abyss explore. I'll wait.

Ok so what do you do when you absolutely don't want to work? I write completely useless Vogon Poetry that would come in use one day when I catch hold of victims for my Poetry Appreciation Chairs. Warning: Don't read this if you can avoid. ahem ahem.. The Time has come, lady n gent, For Anarchy to be a form of government! We are The Mango People; of the masses And- kings of cliché- for the masses, by the masses! We want no kings, no ministers too, No Hitlers we need, nor would wannabe legends do. We want no rules- of Gods and law- no sir! I care not if the motor of the world stops to whir. I’ll work not if I want not. Period . You guessed it- the reason for this ballad. Still. I’ll work not if I want not to! I’ll sleep late if I do want to. I’ll want my share of grain I’ll contribute by way of refrain From useless poetry for its more than plain That all it does is fry your brain

The morn is here, you said you'd come; I have stories to tell, and news with welcome. I'm ready you see, for you said you'd come Your presence I feel, and my heart begins to hum. I'll know when you come, I'll hear your tread. Still I need to watch the road, for I dread The unspeakable- what if this shred Of Hope were false- Oh! I'd rather not instead. I hope it rains, it'll settle the dust. It mars my vision, for watch I must. But no! Rain may defer you! I'll just Bear the dust and my ears to trust. Have you noticed? Time stops when one waits. Otherwise, it just rushes in minutes, in hours and in dates. O the illusions that this Demon-God creates! But come you will, I know, no matter how late. The noon has gone, soon dusk will arrive. Its rather late, and I know you'll contrive Some silly excuse, and then as usual drive Me into the rage and from laughter to derive. But come you must, for excuses or not. Though punctuality was never your strong spot....

A day won't pass without the wish, "Oh! Had I limbs just more than four!" "Oh! Could I cut miles with just a swish!" "Oh! Had the day just a couple hours more!" A night won't pass without the dream, "Oh! Were I the Kent with super speed!" "A personal robot with the laser beam..." "I'll just do this, then I'll be free-ed ..." The train has arrived but the crowd's too slow; Fingers don't match the speed of thought flow! Oh! Why does not the green light glow! No use any longer, of the horn I blow? So much to do, so little time; Oh! Gather cant you, from this hasty rhyme? Oh! How I hate that hourly chime! Tardiness my friend, is nothing short of crime! Entrained in haste does Humanity run; Nobody's noticed? We've left behind the fun... And where to? I see no ribbon No crowds that cheer, no trophy that's given. The stone just might be rolling downhill, No moss upon it- yes- but neither a will. Ru...

The ignorant child, hard at work; Building forts from grains of sand, Patting and pinching- that foolish hand- Ignorant yet of fates that lurk Amongst the brine, ready to leap And dissolve- ere he blinks- the clumsy heap. The dappled painter, lost in hues; Painting worlds and scenes and men, With patient strokes and skillful pen. The pointless reds, the useless blues That Time will fade and Humanity judge For but a moment, before the impatient nudge. The mumbling believer, chanting hymns; Counting rosaries; lengthy epics reads, Strangely penitent, for unknown deeds, Forever fearing imagined Gods' imagined whims. Pray, does he, and baseless ideas extol, Of Gods that rule, if they exist at all. The gilded dancer, forever chasing grace; Why steps in time to the tapping beat That cares a moment for her rushing feet, And cares far seldom for the ecstatic face? Dance does she to beat the beat? Or dance does she to liberate her feet? The joy of feats is joy forever When Soul does dabble i...