THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

I dream your dreams And your dreams are so beguiling, I tried to bring out realities To yours, But you were so trapped in the world of illusion. I painted a warm picture for you, To place it in your dream. The picture of a lone nymph Whose hairs are caressed by wind, Whose feet is pedicured by the easy waters, Who doesn't seem to realise the lurking eyes behind. You were wallowing in the gold shore, Collecting shells to fill your pockets While I was drowning in the water. You were the Santa, I was the lost reindeer, You were the eminent bridge, I was the glitch, You were the charming tulip, while I was the thorn, You were the spectator's choice, I was the banned play, You were a classic tale, I was a silly poem, You were a popular author while I was an anonymous poet. This is how our dreams differed. You remained in the web of colours and aura, I tried to separate you, But the trap was very sharp and strong. You remained in the symphony of verses, G

Let my scars bleed, For I am the coward of the city, I dare not to look into my scars. The hymns of evening is stuck in my throat, And I spit out contagious poison. I cannot see the scars in my body, I only see the blood oozing out, For I am the coward of the city. The land and the herdsmen ran away, The women and the children disappeared. My vanity experienced a meltdown In the battlefield, My swords and words search for a meaning. Thirsty and alone, My surroundings applause at my fate, But I demand, Squeeze me easily, my fate. Dare not to befriend me, For I'm the thorny flower in the garden. Glad that the city has abandoned Its coward, For this world demands heroes,right or wrong Who looks into their scars and Stops the bleeding. But I'm the coward, who looks into the blood. Spectral lights envelope the bloody me And guardian angels fly away, In search of heroes. As immovability takes charge of my body, The vocal chords form the last Words of

This road ends here. But as the destination beckons me, I long to return. To the long roads that smelled me, That travelled a long way to listen to many stories, To the pastoral lands that buried a thousand songs of herdsmen, To the sumptuous forests Of untold mysteries and hiding horrors, And to the orchards of lovers. As I long for the old paths, The willow trees whisper Helping the hairs to raid my ears. Seeing the destination that awaits me, I hardly seem to recognize it, My heart resists to embrace it. When the willows continue its whisper, I long for the old motels, Yearning for a way to it. But the sky seems to jeopardize my plans, Threatening with multiple invisible sounds. The way ahead seems to be weary and unenthusiastic, The sky whoops before the ultimate outbreak, It screams giving me afterthoughts, Suspicion creeps into the hemispheres of my mind, Replacing the poor creator with reason. I walk towards my unenthusiastic destination for a shelte

Does he cry? The beard on his face And the biceps murmured. Yes, he too cries, The empty whiskey bottle And the butted cigarettes protested. He too has eyes, of course,it produces tears And not water. The pent up suffocation and Incomprehensible emotion Combat for freedom. Made one or two excuses, Shut himself up for a day, Cried for a long night, Over the love of his life, Over the wasted years, Withered dreams, Betrayed chums Secluded failures And the dead cat. When your so-called wolf Cries, The ground neither shakes nor trembles, The sky never falls. The satellite society fails To recognise the depressive males, To console them Or to embrace them And to see a heart inside them. The beast is not solely muscular, 'Femininity' weeps inside the dark lands of their hearts. You have hammered the thoughts That bald is not okay, That intellect men are best But it's okay to be You It's okay to be different and imperfect. You constantl

When love came with a bunch of flowers, You were sleeping, Of the tiresome classes and exams, Not to disturb you, She walked away Deciding to visit you some other day. But when she came the next day, She saw the angry you at home, For some trivial matter. Afraid of confronting the furious you, she once again walked away. But for three years, She was busy braiding her hair And cleaning her mirror To go out with the new found love. Love came back with untouched lips Yearning for a kiss, But you were busy to miss, Entangled in the hands of some passer-by, Who only offered you a month of redemption, And left you with a broken heart. When depression rented the rooms of your heart, you hated yourself For being a fool and desperate. Love landed with suspicion Of meeting you again, But you carelessly opened the door and offered a coffee. Love was not partial this time. She sat at your living room for years, With her belongings at the door And your hands in her&

When mosses grow around my bed, Creeping under the blankets, Hiding away from lights, And lifting my body to a higher plane, I will ask you to be my pair. Timeless dreams and faceless figures Capture my mind Bringing novelty to my existence, That's when you have to be my pair. When absurd drama is about to begin, I will ask you to be my pair, To pretend love To pretend hate. I see the sweat on your foreheads, Your eyes sparkle from the sprinkling of sunbeams Which jumped over my head to hug  you. Lost in a world of opaqueness, I will present you the old tattered tshirt, Which will make you nauseous Of memories. That's when I remember the promises that you gave me, To become my pair. Once you become my pair, I can take you to the caves that seem to be haunted, Where i have hidden the magic wand. When I say that I can take you to the past, Unable to believe, you will stay indifferent. When the door finally opens, You will scream and hide behind the

I owe you a multiple times for being the Wild flower amidst the potted plants. You seem to listen to the endless entities of night, You seem to walk away from the ballet of wind. Your magic is irreversible And contagious. Separated from the sun of the day, you are fond of the moon of the night. Your footsteps seem to be the artwork of an amateur artist, Yearning for applause. Heartbreaks seem to be the rhythm of your heart, Forming a walkable distance from death. Your enchanting pupils seem to be ready to trap a Whole lot of invisible things, Beyond human perception. Today you sing the songs of yesterday, And tomorrow,the songs of today. The lavenders of your garden are brighter than mine, For the sun seems to be sleeping over your garden for a whole season. I owe you for being the muse of Desperate artists, Kindling the fire in them, Not leaving them behind to wither And to be drained of all vitality. I beg you, Break my bones, Hold my hands, Take me to y