Request of the day

Stay where you are, not because that place needs you but this moment expects you to. Between now and later, here and there, yes and no, the difference is you. And the beauty that you bring to everything that touches you. You're wonderful. Effortlessly. Perhaps we are set for eternity and then some. I could be mistaken but who cares? The venue won't vary with time but i might. Let me selfishly hope you remain a constant to this change.

Poetically challenged poem

This may not look like a poem
But trust me, it is
Although too coarse and unrefined  
It has all the ingredients necessary.
Check.
These lines are speaking to your soul
Like no else ever did 
No, really
Your mind shall realize it a bit later
But trust me, it will
Being in a lecherous relationship with words 
For months and years and more
They've learned to listen to me
They'll listen to you too
All you've got to do is shut up and read
Anyway, what your eyes are going through is poetry
In its purest form
In fact, formless 
In this particular case—senseless
Whatever.
This poem could have been subtler but what's the point?
Who cares?
Other than you of course.
But then, you've got too much time on your wrist to waste
On my verses
Thanks indeed.
You're encouraging a groundbreaking phase in literature. 
Just so you know.
Never before has prose sashayed so bizarrely as now
This may not look like a poem
But you've accepted it
You just don't know it yet. 
Aren't you silently wondering?
Yes, you are.
What more proof do you need?

An incomplete poem

This is a poem. It might not appear so but it is. What you're currently suffering is an accumulation of several random thoughts that would have loved to be expressed in rhyme or a limerick but thanks to my limited skills, they seem content with being prosaic than poetic. Let's just say: This is how poetry in demotion looks like. Whenever my thoughts digress towards an incomplete poem, i somewhat try to stick to the plan of finishing it off in one stroke. In the meantime, my mind plays with the voices it never hears in the first place. However, that idea never materializes. Something has to happen in the middle of nothing and I'm left with everything but excuses. This is an excuse too.

An untitled work of molested art

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Attention: Whoever penned the following magnum opus is definitely not a poet. Whoever thinks otherwise deserves to be my friend.
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A poem badly written remains so
Whether the scribbler likes it or no
Words throw jibes at his perseverance
While verses struggle to make sense
Sometimes the ideas turn renegade too
As emotions are denied and stanzas rue
During such moments, life is like a simile
Cut loose from figure of speech with glee
Under the wall of ceaseless expectations
Over the bridge of limited conventions
Nowhere to go yet left all loose
Lacking humour it can so damn use
Meanwhile, an innocent page stays old-schooled
For rhyme’s sake, poetry gets fooled.

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P.S.: It feels so great to be friends with folks having such bad taste in literature!
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I wish I could write down...

I wish I could write down like I used to... but now-a-days its more like laziness has crept over me and I'm stranded inside of me. I'm working two jobs 6 1/2 days a week to make sure my idle mind doesn't get it fodder for devil and my pocket stays comfy. But still I'm getting all weaned up of my earlier creative side which included newspaper clippings and poems and stories and novels alike.

I wish I could write down like I used to... about the times I felt like killing my wrist and live but I never did it and instead used to pen, to write down the shame. I wrote down everything that I felt under sunburn. Today, I'm writing it all but not in details like I used to. My words are not as sharp as it was with life before, with narrow tips and broader lips, I used to catch all my figments with words.

I wish I could write down like I used to... with angst and pangs and songs and dance performed by paragraphs and stanzas and quarts and limericks and acrostics and haikus. But those were the times when I had lot of time to gaze into the greenery around the emptiness of sky and the cloud of rains and smile. I laughed a lot then with hardly any care of how the brutal world could get and how wrong was I.

I wish I could write down like I used to... of endless anecdotes I'd love to entail for legacy to be made out of me. I know this futile dream of fame and glory for my work which I haven't did, is so true to me. Its so numbingly naive and full of dices and displays of luck at every crossroad of time. I don't desire to be read now for I don't care anymore. I just wish to write like I used to.

I wish I could write down like I used to... like I'm doing now...