Death and cigarettes

I blow rings of smoke all the time
Every wakeful moment, each season
Coz death can be a zillion things
I wish to choose my own poison.

Out of the many things that kill us
The most lethal is Boredom
And most obnoxious, of course,
Is the cold altar of Altruism.
Fatal can be a Lover’s Distrust
Ideas can be toxic
One wrong move can prove ruinous
While Humour might be caustic.
A Sacrifice, suicidal
Indecisiveness can be killing
And a Suspicion can gnaw your insides
A Failure might be drilling.

Have you never seen a Spirit die
Or the ebbing of a Passion
Or the necrosis of true Love
Or Faith suffering erosion?

While life hangs on to each labored breath
Death almost always, has no reason.
My smoke rings create an illusion of power
At least, I chose my own poison.

The Alchemy Of Hurt

You wonder if it’s just the tough shell
And I hide somewhere within its patterned whirl
Practicing that arcane art ocean taught me,
The alchemy of hurt- turning pain into pearl.

I wonder when it is going to stop.
My senses have been overwhelmed surreal.
Those distraught neurons are hoping, someday
They would give grief a decent burial.

I close my sky

I close my sky in a square 10X10
And get high on the solitude in my veins.

Each of us dwells in our own microcosm
I chose to close it more- upper limit one
While silence within roars, world is a distant hum
Ties either untangle or come undone.

When you wade through the river of sadness
You leave footprints of that pain
I believe I walked out of that madness
When I closed my sky 10X10.

Dreams and Legends

I want to be the stuff legends are made of
And go on to become one, one day
I wonder what it is like to be happy
So much that I don’t care if I don’t live to see the very next day.

I want to breathe the stuff dreams are made of
And live a life built out of them, one day
I wonder what it is like to feel the win within
And keep the moment frozen in time till my dying day.

I don’t wonder about the meaning
Or the purpose of my life
All I know is what I want-
The power to walk assured on the edge of a knife.

Love

They whisper about this thing called love-
The voices inside my head
While others scream- Screw it!
The age of irrationality has long been dead.
Lazy weekends and lots of space
Are the only things you need
Yet they whisper- how would it be
If you can just let it go; let someone else take the lead?