Skip to main content

The More...


The more you hate,the more you love.
The more you forget, the more you remember.
The more you become unearthly,the more you turn earthly.
The more you doubt, the more you start to believe.
The more you try to be material,the more you become spiritual.
The more you look into peripheral, the more you go deeper.
The more you suppress, the more you express.
The more you look forward, the more you look back.
The more you try to be lonely, the more you are surrounded.
The more you try to be concrete, the more become abstract.
The more you try to be stable,the more you go insane.
The more you fix yourself, the more you wither away.
You are a flower of contradictions drooping into lonely waters.
It's difficult to be stable, but easy to go insane.
Fix the roots and face the bloody sun.

A.C

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Shuli’s Love

  Shuli washed her hair twice that day. One for her love to cleanse  all impurities of reality  and one for herself. She took a nap twice  that day. One for love that took  her melatonin, And another to forget. Shuli laughed twice that day. One on behalf of her tainted  Love, And another on her botched brain  cells. She cried a quarter that day. Half a quarter filled with anger, and the other half with shame. She danced twice that day, One for lost time on love, And another for her love for dance. Shuli wrote twice that day, One for her heart and  Other for her brain. She gave two hugs that day, One for her wet pillow And another for herself. Shuli played hostess twice  that day, One for her pain and  the last for her sanity.

Little Poem

  My procrastination ends here, While the urge to write chokes my throat, My hands get paralysed as in a trance, I find excuses to write a little poem, I make up a lonely man, a distressed woman, a lovers’ quarrel, an unrequited love, But they are reluctant to play the part, Maybe i should give them a raise, Or throw a party at midnight, Maybe a few drinks might work, Only if they don’t puke. I can expect a little vandalism,  Some damage to the property and a mini scandal, Possibly out of rage. But at the end when I bring my weapons, Sometimes they get scared and back off, Some may never come back, Others find it funny and mock at me, And opportunists, seeing my desperation, Attacks me with manipulation. And all these while, my three panic attacks  talk to me in a different language, I try to write a little poem With a racing heart and flowing eyes, I write my little poem, tortured and broken, I end my little poem, Like a mighty warrior,  Who had a pyrrhic victory.

Madeline’s Mirror

  Madeline’s mirror told her she’s fat, It appalled at her shapeless dress, Covering a chunk of flesh. She looked at her broad shoulders  And big breasts,  which reminded her of a pile of  clothes that no longer fits her. But Madeline smiled and applied her eyeliner effortlessly. Her mirror sneered at her  chafing thighs kissing each  other when she moves. Madeline’s mirror found her  plush lips contradicting  the pair of flesh  on either side of it. It spotted the two chins fighting for space like contestants in the combat zone. Madeline admired her freckleless skin, and applied her favourite lipstick. The mirror reflected  her flabby arms  complementing her  saggy belly. Madeline moved closer  to her mirror,  which still in oblivion,  started to produce sympathetic smiles at her legs. It mirrored how her legs carry all the weight, hiding under her flowy dress. Appreciating her silky hair and perfectly manicured...