THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

Robert came last week. Saw him Shouting things unfamiliar, as they dragged his healthy body over. Calm down Robert, This place will be your home now. A home where you feel homesickness, A home with walls of instabilities. Unattracted by this principle of home, Calmness was a distant reality to Robert. The stale breakfast and lunch was indifferent to him. The bedbugs embraced him with stories of former inmates. The garden seemed graveyard to him. His mouth at times pronounced beautiful female names with drools. A lone walker along the aisles of the Building, He looked through the giant gate that never opened. He talked to the trees that never replied. He sang of things unheard-of, He longed for a normal life like the guards. He who cracked knuckles frequently has lost his name, Now he is number forty. Forty of cell ten. Forty who came last week. Forty from? Forty died yesterday. Sally came today. They dragged her over while shouting things unfamiliar. N

The ghosts of evening sang a song. A song of my cabbage life. When the trees get tickled by the licking leaves, The houses shine in the lamp shades, Walking all alone,i wander with my playlists, Aimless as an owl, spreading the pessimistic winds. I see horror hiding behind the oak tree, Reluctant to come out, it crawls away to darkness. The roads with day's dirt and trodden stones, Seems to howl at me with each footsteps. When the dreams of youth form congeries of mess in the sky, I spread my arms and hugged me, At a night when glorious love songs pass from windows. I look for a drum to destroy the silence of the night, to wake up the sleeping heroes. Here, Your villain has come. Welcome me with boredom and bitterness. Spot me in the darkness of depression, Before I kill you with my inglorious stories and agitating songs. I can divide your home and shed blood. Bewitched by the noise of my drum, Your children will follow me, Like Pied Piper, I will take th

He doesn't know the nights i cried for him. He doesn't know the thoughts i had for him. He doesn't know the things I want to tell him. He doesn't know the pain of my heart every night I burst into tears. He doesn't know the happiness i wanted to share with him. He doesn't know the places I want to go with him. He doesn't know that everything will be fine. He doesn't realise I'm there for him, no matter what. He doesn't know the prayers i offered in his name. He doesn't know the times I complicated my mind for him. He doesn't know the songs i want him to listen to. He doesn't know the poems i want him to read. He doesn't know the years I waited. He doesn't know the times I was present with him, in my absence. He doesn't see the scars I bore for him. He doesn't see the fights I fought for him. And when the sun hits the ocean, The tears that flowed was enough and more for a pond. And finally as the u

Blame me for not being you. For not reflecting your perceptions. For being me. For blooming the flowers of odd hues in my garden. For carrying a heart full of poetry and mind full of seasons. For being summer than spring, For being mist than rain, For listening than speaking, And for scattering than gathering. Blame me for deviating from the ideal human, Because my pursuits of happiness are different from yours. A.C

Before you go relentlessly to sleep, Bid goodbye to the songs of dusk, The tangible lights of wisdom that made your day. Feed your appetite with the the ambrosial food of understanding. See,the galore of rivers stop for your gratitude, While the pebbles inside conspire to resume the flow. The cuckoo conducts a symphony with the autumn flowers, setting the stage for your thanksgiving ceremony. Let your heart sinks into the dawn of the day, To mark the victories and failures of your day. Humble your stature where arts bid farewell to philosophy, where waters of humanity put out the selfish forest fires. The prayers of farmers and the drowsiness of clerks,stretches their day and When the Spirits of loneliness haunt them, They seek for some Elysian fields from the days of yore. And when the day is at its verge of death, I go out to the fields to collect the berries, To keep in the shrine of my heart of hearts. Dancing with gratitude, i sing like a nightingale, and Th

When you have that urge, do it. I mean when you have that urge to write, write it down. Do not hold back. Paper, back of note books, mobile, let it be anything. Do not hold back. If you do not do it, there is no assurance for the return of that urge. This only occurs sometimes, or in some cases once in a blue moon. Artist for this matter, need to sharpen their ears to listen to the voice. The voice of hungry soul. The artistic pleasure that you get when you put it down in paper is really an outcome of intrinsic and extrinsic factors. The euphoria that you produce through the very act belongs only to you. Nothing can stop a determined artist and the song of imagination on loop in your head. Be it five minutes or ten seconds, once it's gone, it's hard to get it back. It would sometimes take until the cows come home, so better grab it when it comes. Because your instincts and your heart are snollygosters. Even now the urgency that i experienced at the beginning of this write u

I see coloured faces, happy faces. The faces that told the happiness of completing the school, the studies, the tiresome exams, the weekend exams, homeworks, of escaping the angry eyes of teachers. The happiness of knowing the truth that they have grown up, that they are matured enough to handle things, that they are stepping into another beautiful phase of life. This unbridled enthusiasm is a trap. The great maturing trap! Because after three or five years you will know that it was this phase, that was beautiful, less burdensome, lighter. The coloured faces and scribbled uniforms have many stories to say that the letters pop out or peep through the threads of uniform after many years. The nostalgic element is very high in this case. But the only profit that you get is the acknowledgement of what you wanted to become, that revelation you get from the tree of enlightenment made of life experiences and people. You have come all the way leaving your colourful life, to get this revelat