Tragedy of wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of wanderer:

“As he wondered what his hearts seeks, his spirits sank and a state of despair held him high and low, for the day and night were dreading enough to witness, he could not imagine what conspiracy of time will bring if he were to confront his heart’s treasure if it ever comes to find it. They say, ‘Men can never love beauty, for men loves to pursue only to kill it in the end.’ Oh and having being accused of being a murderer the mere thought of holding a knife drenched in the blood of his own heart made his nerves numb, how distressful! Sipping his glass of scotch till the last drop in one breath he comforted himself, for at-least he had his unknown void to jump into and be lost and merry, as if a mermaid is lost in the depths of the sea, or those millions of stars lost in the abyss of space, he wished to remain adrift in his voyage to land of forgotten dreams, or nightmare as if to say in worldly term.”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Insecurities, they kill you slowly, at their ease, but a sure death and even before you know. You could self-sabotage yourself with words but being a coward you had no faith in them, for you thought words weren’t as lethal as to kill you but probably would cripple you instead, you didn’t want to be crippled but a glorious death, where you could see and feel yourself being dead, death of an iconic character. Truth is words could strangle you and save you from the silence of the light though at the cost of chaos of the night, but your perverse mind had become greedy and you wanted to rob the shadows passing by prostituting of your intellectual garbage. You knew you were at risk of falling to a void you would not even be able to regret but such is the temptation of being labeled an icon you didn’t stop, and now while you are dumped in the abyss of self-loathing filled with days bright and young, you could do nothing but weep and pray for the darkness to visit you, asking for forgiveness, just like those thousands others in line you always hated to go near to. This is your hell and you must decorate it with your own nightmares.” 

Scribbling

“Soon the words would die

And the pages would become an orphan

Soon the darkness would be convicted

For prostituting itself

And the night will be left out in street

Soon the days would rape it in all its vigour

Soon the solitude would be a mere smudge upon the eyes

And the world would wash it off with their indifference…”

A Plea…!

I always trusted you

Thought you could convey what I have kept hidden

Underneath my skin for years now

For you have done so time and again

Poets have written their saga nonchalantly

As if you were their own creation

Oh dear! But why me, what did I do

That you abandon me in high sea

Of turmoil and wrecking emotions

While you could put me bare open and let the world read

What I have scribbled upon my flesh

As I did always, while getting high upon smell of

Yellowed pages of old books, how magical they used to be, Oh!

And as last drop of blood dries

Upon the nib of pen, I still await

For you to consider my mercy plea

And turn my life-imprisonment

At-least to death penalty

For may be scribbling upon my dead body

Would be able to draw your attention

May be one day you would find my scribbling

And give them your shape and soul

And they would turn into words too

I shall wait, until the night comes

When my fate would be sealed

And I would be asked to rest my pen

Upon my coffin, this shall bear no name

And I shall rest beneath an unmarked grave

Only to be lost beneath the world of words

Deprived of poetry and tales

In perfect oblivion of a life it could have

Upon a blank paper once, alas!

Praveen Parasar

03/10/2016

Ritual!

“And all the while I thought about you

There was a sense of chaotic calm

It screamed to me to devour you

A recipe of sin and lust, irresistible night

Just the old darkness growing around

And I chose to plunge in depths of your desire

For you seemed to me to be made of fire

What else could burn our shadows abound

Yet soon the night ceased to grow

And warmth of air suffocated

For once the flames start to die

It burns one with an agony and more

And all the while I thought it was over

I craved for you as an addicted insomniac

Such is the habit of night my dear

One is bound to suffer yet waits

Until solitude is withered and trampled

Once again, alas!”