Funeral!

“Droplet of words

Collected over time

Hardened enough

To withstand

The wrath of silence

Placed carefully

one upon another

Erecting a tomb

For

The beloved scream

Who died

Isolated, stranded

In that grave

Haunted of its own

Unable to escape

Walls of the days

Built around

Thick enough to

Suffocate

passing by nights

And strangle

The leftover darkness

Kept hidden

Beneath those eyes

Wide awake

Watching themselves

Being stoned

By the rocks

Made of blank papers

Carrying stains

Of tears

And leaving behind

A trail of withered solitude…”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“As if one must have something to identify with. Be it language, color, religion, nation, tradition, culture and the list continues to habits and interests. What defines our existence is not our intellectual capability but our ability to carry on the legacy of animalistic past of having an identification as a must to survive in the jungle where only rule that applies is survival of fittest and fit are only those who could make themselves a part of something, and hence the primordial struggle or rather conspiration to form and break them. There is no individual existence, having nothing to identify with. You don’t exist as a phantom, with a mask or blank papers. Ask god, even they could not, alas! 

Mirage…!

“I could feel

our love

like a droplet of rain

upon bare skin

on a hot summer afternoon

I could feel it

Like the smell of

Dust, dry soil

Being drenched in rain

As if I was being drenched

In your smell

I could feel it

Like the lazy sunshine

On a Sunday morning

Sneaking inside

Taking a peek

Kissing you softly, and

Watching you watch it

Melt, drown in your embrace

I could feel you

Like a vague dream

Lucid enough to be believed

Being real, a mirage…”

Praveen parasar

18/06/2017

Existence!

Droplets of time

Rolling down

cheeks of space

drowning the shadow

in abyss of darkness

while weight of gravity

feels too much to hold

the universe explodes

here and now

there and then

initiates a tragedy

inflating itself

engulfing it all

until a moment

where it gets to meet

its nemesis

there exists

a melancholia so deep

which dries the sea of time

and soaks the flesh of space

and buries the gravity deep

beneath its own weight

where nothing exists

neither a birth

nor a death

where day is a prisoner

of its own dilemma

and night wanders around

drunk

where the darkness

offers glimpses

into

void of emptiness

there lies

deserted graves

carrying fragments of chaos

filled with

an absolute

nothingness

as if left behind

awaiting salvation

asking passer-by

‘here, come and rest

in silent abode of dead’

In that moment

Which brings

death in bits of life

life in chunks of death

and a few drops of tears

to quench

the primordial thirst, alas!”

Praveen Parasar

14/06/2017

A world of my own…!

"I constructed a world

Of my own

That could accommodate me

In bits and pieces

I made walls around

to keep it safe

for the day lurks around

to take a bite off and steal

The rest of longings

For It would trade it for few fake hopes

And would walk away leaving behind

Nothing but a trail of shallow promises

I painted it dark, I must

And wrapped it in veil of angst

For only the night to see

The dirty little secret

Of vulnerable solitude

I constructed a world

Of my own

Where I could wear my pretense

And watch myself adorning

every nook and corner

of those enclosed walls

where I could celebrate my fears

and watch echoes of my scream

haunt me, hunt me

but having nowhere to run to

I would fail, fall

Upon my own doorstep, a grave

Built to perfection

Where ghosts of my bereaved words

Would feast upon my corpse

and leave no sign of solace

I constructed a world

Of my own

Away and aloof

In silent alleyways

Of lingering darkness…”

Praveen Parasar

22/05/2017

A Poem!

“What are you

What am I

What are we but a poem

Pieces of it left abound, here and there

Broken glasses, broken

Me, you, us

Waiting to be collected, connected

For it to whisper our cries silently

For it to sing our screams swiftly

A poem, that exists only in oblivious lanes

Of memories, dreams and nightmares

Where we are often left stranded

Awaiting salvation in its paragraphs

A poem which touches our scars

As if its words are to mend, melt us

And turn them into an abyss

Where me, you, each of us

Could find ourselves drowned

In the pool of blood, alphabets

A poem that is made of tears and laughter

Sadness and solitude covering its modesty

Angst and longing showing it the way

While wandering around

Falling and rising

It loses itself in pieces

Until there comes the sea

A reader, passerby

The moon or the night

A touch of whom is enough

To bring us a euphoric orgasm

Bound to be an end

Yet what else could we desire

What else did we desire?

A poem that is made up of

Me, you, us

A poem that dies in

Me, you, us

Leaving behind a trail

Of devastation, destruction

Of warmth and touch

That continues to remind

Me, you, us

Of something that we lost, forever, alas!”

Praveen Parasar

20/05/2017

Scribbling

“Society is the diluted form of individuals who succumb to its exaggerated portrayal of being the force to reckon with, it’s unfortunate that a raw individual is often characterized as a threat to its very existence which sets a sort of panic and it ends up putting their corpses upon its walls as trophy. But even before its celebration gets over they start to haunt its nights and shame its days, bound to be the reason of its culmination, a pity.”