World Is Too Full To Talk About, Is It ?

Never miss a good chance to shut up. Too much babbling can mess with our gray matter. On the other hand silence is a silent killer, a sweet poison. Leave a thing unsaid and there’s a hole in someone’s heart which will last for eternity. It’s the silence against sheer injustice that makes it more painful than it already is. Profuseness of words around us helps us to forget things that are once said but, when there’s lack of it. Who knows?

As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment.
― John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men

I sat here

You sat there

None of us moved

But distance furthered

I asked nothing

You said nothing

We talked for hours

But minds were locked

I waited for you to tell

You waited for me to ask

None of us said the word

Like that generations passed

I’m guilty of not asking

Your guilt was not to tell

Ohh, it eats us all the same

Wondering who’s to blame

I had a way with words

You were a talker too

But we chose quite

Over being vocalized

Words are powerful people often say

We live and survive every single day

Sometimes we shower words

When silence could have sufficed

Sometimes all we need is words

But we think our silence is justified. 

Born In To These Carefully Mad Wars

There's a war within, a mad war, a bad one. Road on which he's travelling is full of conflicts. He's got so many battle scars. His mind is full of bittersweet memories of the time that’s gone. He sings and dances, he cries and writhes in pain. He makes mistakes, commits blunders. He sprints in marathon and drops down soon only to get up and think hard.

“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.” 
― T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

Some wildest of all dreams he's had

on a hilltop when it pours he'll parade

walking barefoot alone in midnight and gaze

to where he's running, to what he's gunning ?

which seed is inside that's growing ?

can he figure out the tale ?

in the end, when lights go out

will he have a story to tell ?

Sun's a thief

moon's a killer

he's ever engaged

with freedom's cage

under sunshine

he's in battle

in moonlight

he wages a war

with the world

he was born in

roads he roamed in

people he loves 
souls he adores

life was suppose to be easy

it's what he saw in movies

stories he's read were crazy

songs he liked rock-metal-heavy

and now everything's in real-time

failure sometime feels like crime

now he's running in his primes

tagging with good ones and rhymes

there's no point

fearing and dreading

he's going out to kill

all fuss and confusing

draining the sun's shine out

dissolving silvery of moon

and climbing that hilltop

dreaming of that roof top

marching in rain to parade

gazing in mid of night

shedding all charade

one day he will sit

down to tell the tale.