Oh me, Blasphemous me

They won't listen. Do you know why? Because they have certain fixed notions about the past. Any change would be blasphemy in their eyes, even if it were the truth. They don't want the truth; they want their traditions.
― Isaac Asimov, Pebble in the Sky

Give me some magic pill, some God

To get away from this maddening world

Let me slip through the cracks

If few of them still exist

Once they catch up with me

I’ll be tried, will be pried

Chained and scrutinized

My friends will watch from afar

Earthly concerns enchains them too

They are wildlings stocked in zoo

Too little, so brittle

What in this cosmos they can do

There’s no pill

Such whispers I hear everyday

There are far too many Gods

For me to pray

I never pray

I’ll rot in seven hells for this

Oh me, blasphemous me

Some might say

But I feel better this way

They never listen

Have ears just for show

Why call?

When I always get to yell at a wall

It’ll crumble in time not before

Methinks my way is right

They think otherwise

For me it’s all hypocrisy

They charge me with heresy

For who is right, who got it all wrong?

Is it you lot?

Or is it me and my blasphemous song?

Often A Disquiet

My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me but nothing holds me. I attend to everything, dreaming all the while. I’m two and both keep their distances- Siamese twins that aren’t attached.

~Fernando Pessoa, Book of Disquiet

Often a ray

Calls my name from where the Sun sank

Often a ship

Sailing too fast strikes the river bank

Often a river

Overflows right in front of me

Often a fragrance

Dances and plants kisses on my cheeks

I sit down

No matter where I am

And often I fancy

Some strange shapes and forms in debris.

Often Moon rumbles

Deep in my pocket it turns and dribbles

Setting Sun, sinking slowly

Eaten up by some speck like squirrels on a tree

Often wide world shrinks

Fits right in my hands like my favourite cup of a tea

I get up

From wherever I am

Often Night

Like some Ants comes crawling cautiously.

Often a laugh

Like some cold-breeze blows

Often a glance

Pierces like a spear’s pointy edge

Often a trivia

Stands tall like a peak of Mount

Often a silence

Adorns my noisy bare body

I move on

From wherever I am

Often a disquiet

Turns quietly into a fulfilling journey.

Sailing Unto the Storm

The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore.
― Vincent van Gogh

Sea may spew some poison

For me to shock and halt

Waves may play some tricks

Break me young and clear all

But, a storm’s rising within me

Look, I see a storm in the sea

I’m sailing unto the storm

Beware you Storm

Hear me roar feel my howls

Spunk in me knows no bounds

Shout loud you Waves

Roar as much as you can

Sweet, embrace me hard

Delve, go deep in my heart

For miles and miles I’ll cruise

Forever I’ll cruise

So what if endless are your shores?

I’ll keep rowing in this little boat

To meet you face to face

You’re fierce I’ll be fiercer

Stay put, don’t you dare run

Please, let me have some fun

For I’ll lay adrift as long as it takes

As far as it takes

  

Oceanus you are so mighty and strong

I’m not going back on our engagement

Till my heart roars and beats

No bowing down on your feet

Your might makes me stronger

Every day I sail a little longer

For I’m sailing unto the storm

Beware you Storm.

For In Time To Remind

I always walk
on the broken step, the
others all avoid it,
I walk on it
to remember.
~Barney F. McClelland

Forgetfulness is an easy choice. Some memories are best forgotten. Buried deep down they are safe and far from bothering me again. Yet I cling on to some not because I want to savour or treasure them but for a careful remembrance. Each time I face it there’s comfort in knowing that I won’t be doing that same thing again. Why do I do that even when I know that it chips off a part of me? I’m not eccentric and am not insane either yet some blunders or mishaps are worth retaining. It doesn’t hamper my present activities, never deviates or confuses me or dulls my senses but it does add a hint of forbearance and savoir-faire. 

Letters you gave me I kept

Tore them apart in my eyes

No longer have they smelt sweet

Reeked of rot and lost trust

Forget I must

Never saw them again

Not with these eyes, but

Sometimes I recall all those lines

Which you wrote me in my primes

In scribbled gibberish

I could hear your rummy voice

They were destined to be ashes

Forgotten inks, pages in stasis

I kept those forgotten pages

For half-remembrances

For in time to remind.

When it pours at night

Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before--more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle. 
― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

When it pours at night

Heavy, but there isn't light

No Sun to make me see

All I hear are sounds

Drops dropping, dripping

Sogginess is all I smell

Can feel the wetness abound

But, there isn't a light

Moon isn't there

How can I see?

Amidst this noise I lie awake

There’s dissonance within me

It flirts; it rattles paces and settles

It has a voice, it crawls passively

But there isn't a light

No one’s there

To make me see

And then there’s pouring

Not from the skies
and I sleep in the warmth

just glad that it poured tonight.