What a painful irony that hurts all artists
When he has to serve the interests of the markets
He did well what he did for himself and the love of his art
When he tries to sell his thoughts, he is unable to express.
A bucket full of thoughts, which one should I choose first?
They all are dear to me, but which one do you want to hear?
I choose a random one, work on it, but it doesn’t work.
I choose another; same process, same result.
Stranded with my bucket fof thoughts, awaiting execution,
As worthless as a skyfull of dark clouds yielding no rain.
Perhaps the search of my monsoon would cease,
When I fall again for my art and choose to express what I wish to express.
Dear Sinus, I realise how much I love to breathe,
Whenever in summers, you come for a visit,
Last summer too, you made my nose your nest,
And spent the best part of it as an unwelcomed guest.
I won’t be polite and say this aloud,
You are nasty, and embarras me in a crowd.
A spree of sneezes on a wee bit funny smell.
Making my eyes go watery and nose swell.
And the luggage you carry is nastier than you,
That headache with which I wake and sleep and do not miss in between.
That stuffy nose, stubborn like a spoiled brat,
Sitting like a heavy rock on the tip of my nose.
You bring more fatigue to an already lithargic fellow,
And soon your friend ‘cough’ also says hello.
My judgement on whether I feel hot or cold is lost,
And all my plans for the day go for a toss.
You make yourself feel like an annoying, possesive lover,
Literally choking me of some breathing space.
But, now I had enough, let’s call it off.
I am done carrying your baggage
I miss the old analogue that came with a reel,
It offered no effects; no silhouette, no surreal.
Limited photos,, each had its cost.
Clicking a selfie, none were lost.
Digital age, more photos, less cost, no feel.
Lasts the blink of an eye,
A moment of happiness;
Yet it worths being sough.
A lots of love to those who who supported me and followed this blog. I was very busy in the last two weeks, so had to discontinue my writing. But, the NaMoWriMo is not over for me. In this month (May) I would try to write the other 15 poems which are due on me.
Thanks for being a part of this journey.
The tireless tyres of time keep chuckling on;
While with static eyes, I watch them go by.
Years later, the wasted days of youth,
Shall haunt me with a heap of regret.
The slow, shaky steps never hurt,
One must respect his own pace,
And keep walking to aleast finish the race.
My intentions are noble, and never to ridicule,
I have been to a better school.
But when I switch on television,
I lose hold of my vision.
I become a critic and call everybody a fool.
For all the warmth and comfort a room with four walls grants.
A complementary seed of dark shallow thoughts it plants.
It curbs the ability of my mind to explore and create,
To dance under the sunshine with one of my mate
The four walls acts as a shield to the opportunities,
to the breath of fresh air and other rewards of life.
Security is an inferior price to be a prisoner of four walls. .
I perform my morning rituals in haste,
Punch of punctuality I do not wish to taste,
Rare do I show up on time,
It turns out to be a big crime.
Event postponed; all my efforts go waste.
After a long day that yield nothing,
but tired limbs and heatstroke,
An angry, frustrated heart,
Strolled towards home.
Sleep comes naturally as I lay,
Plead to start afresh the next day.
To reproduce my efforts again,
For fortune favours those who waits.