Life…!

"I am life

Your master, who you owe

Your flesh and bones

Your truth and lies

Your filth and plight

Your pain and cries

Who did you think

Owns you and your shadow

I will rob you of your tears

And put you on display

I will sell your dreams

And nightmares alike,

For you cannot distinguish anyway

I will drink your blood, which

You have diluted off your pretensions

And get high listening to your screams

While you will be deprived of sleep

For they are my lullaby

You must entertain me the way

I wish, what else but an act

You have practiced all these years and still,

You fear being given

Your soul on platter

For you must taste how does it feel

To eat yourself,

Self, which you sold a long time back

To me, I am your life

And I promise to keep you dead

Until you realize you cannot escape

For you have lost your right to die

And death has refused

To carry you away

For I am your life

And I enjoy watching you suffer

You must enjoy it too..."

Praveen Parasar

31/07/2016

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“You never know what is at stake until you are on your knees looking at the fag end, where lies nothing but ruins of your past, laughing at you for your own ignorance which you chose, for you decided rather to have faith, faith! When did you having faith in faith anyway? This is your crime, you must embrace the punishment. You chose the wrong start, now you chose your own wrong end. 

Falling in the abyss is not so bad when you know where you are falling, when you know it is an abyss and you would be falling for ever; until there’s nothing left of you but a fading shadow which vanishes in thin air like you never existed, just like memories. Was it a mistake, was it an adventure, was it right gone wrong, who knows, for life enjoys watching one suffer in chaos, for death relishes in watching one sleep in silence. Who knows what one has asked for until it is served?

You are never right until they say so, you are never wrong until you say so. Alas! Those moments of vulnerable intimacy, those moments of vigorous confrontation, moments when one is made to fall, moments when one decides to stand up. It just goes one, another continuum, just like that abyss; all he could do is to let himself fall, waiting…”

Seduction!

"While I contemplate invitation of your lips

To taste them

I am mocked by your breasts

For my words seems to drown in their fervent heaviness

While I watch them sink beneath the palpable softness of your skin

As if those cold blooded curves were not enough

To make them scurry up and down, like a little rodent trapped

Between crest of your breasts to tempting mounds of hips

And while they nervously attempt to escape

I see your eyes watching them, as if to quench her thirst

As if delighted, as if mischievous as ever,

Oozing lust, and asking to follow for I must

I sleepwalk to your honey pot

Only to be lost forever in its trails, slave of your dreams…”

Praveen Parasar

05/07/2016

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“When despite knowing the life altering circumstances ahead you cannot stop, for you find no control what so ever upon yourself, as if a wild passionate animal has possessed you and you have no option then to sleepwalk around, watching yourself fall into the flames of your lust, to get yourself destroyed and yet that inglorious moment of flame keeps you hypnotized and stunned to react anyway. This is never about destiny or fate, this is our own postmortem we choose to do upon our wounds hidden too long inside to be operated in silence, re-opening of scars must be celebrated and so is the death such flames bring you, for now there is something beyond night which has taken possession of your essence, such joy of pain…”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“This isn’t about love, which is caring, loving, soft and cuddly. This is about that wild lust which awaits moment to engulf us as if that absolute darkness which sets the lonely night on fire post twilight, a rare sadistic tale, where lies no scope of compassion but two wild beast ready to take down each other ruthlessly, no emotion but a sheer pleasure of selfish passion, which delights itself watching other being burnt, which cares for none but itself. Where there are no boundaries, no respect, and no accommodation but only to ruin each other as gloriously as possible. This is not about constructing temples of love but about destruction of graveyards where our inner demons spend sleepless nights, looking to make a kill and quench its ever growing thirst…”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Failure is a dirty disease, a virus which once infected makes one too shameless to feel any sort of remorse or pity on self. He felt like being addicted to it now. Every small dose of failure gave him a taste of drugs that was too difficult to find these days for people only wanted good fellas in neighborhood, no bad business, sober and clean, ready to say yes and follow the righteous, anything beyond it was considered a bad omen, they rubbed it off clean with holy water and prayed to god to keep them away from any such disease. However he soon realized he was infected by it long ago, and it was this disease that made him feel good being closer to himself, made him intimate with self, he could talk to self and laugh over jokes upon self. It made things much clearer, now he knew why he felt an urge to get high every time he was asked to perform. He had become an addict and such addictions are hard to let go, he did not even want to anyway, though he was sure soon he would be banished off the sights in lost trails of oblivion. He felt a childlike excitement for such somber journey.”

Tragedy of wanderer

Scribbling

Tragedy of wanderer:

“As he watched the rain washing the day off him, as it washed down the light off the night; could it extinguish the fire day sets every dawn, to watch one burn while it carries the flame asking to be seen, to accept its reign, follow its dictate and become alive, alive? Alas! Day’s light being too bright cannot do anymore than to wipe the half-burnt body of him, hiding the scars off the horizon, removing any small signage which could lead the darkness back to the night, where he could make love with self for once which the day considered a crime worse than blasphemy; he carried a little of him in his burnt-out pockets, where he had kept small pebbles of darkness along with few raw words hidden off the day, it was his survival kit…”