A
pair of sottish eyes, watching over an outline of delicate drapes swaying tardily
in silence so deep that I could hear the moonlight striking on the window.
Every wrinkle of that ceaseless frown casting an insufferable fragrant desire.
Too frail to even go near. Distant, like fireworks. Serene. Exploding emotions,
awing the world. Shrieking words on the papers that hold no meaning now. Let him
be free. For once.
Showing posts with label Bad times. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bad times. Show all posts
Rose petals on grave
Monday, May 16, 2011
by B.H.
Look at you! You look like a happiness-deprived person, insanely coveting the energizing source like you would hope for a frosty bottle of your favorite drink while wandering in a scorching desert. I guess everything would be pretty funny without attachments, I mean that – in both ways. I feel like, I’m caught in a twister; flying around countless spirals. Circles, with no end to them. It’s not pleasant. My fingers scrabble at my throat to loosen the tension of this invisible cord that is choking me and I don’t find it.
I’ve spent my all day hoping that I’d feel better because I have a worldly end to attain. This fever of resentment has affected me worse today but tomorrow you’ll see me at bay. I have so many strangest words to write off – tonight – but I’m not going to do that – like always. Enough poetic bullshit! Why do I always have to sound like a moron? Every cloud has a silver lining and this cloud has one too –– because I have so many things on my list that I won’t even have the time to think about things that don’t matter anymore. And that’s it.
I think I’m okay now.
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...
Thursday, May 12, 2011
by B.H.
Being friends with those guys is worse than picking baby poop and I don’t know why I even compared picking baby poop with something like that, seriously! The other day, I had the sheer misfortune of watching this horrible movie “Yes man” and while I was having that nightmare, they called, “dude, we are going to The Hills to watch the whole city from there. We got everything. You down?” and before I could think of something to say, “Cool. We’ll pick you up.” *hangs up*. And there, I smoothly managed to ruin my day because I thought saying no to things brings bad things in life. Oh how I regret watching that movie. I disdain such “hang outs”, I even hate the word and especially with those emo looking morons! It’s just. Totally ridiculously absurd. And now, I unwaveringly believe the mystical idea of following your heart and staying away from the stuff you know you will regret in the long run. There was an unusual difference in “his” style of telling stories and of ridiculing the others that night. And then they all started saying things I loathe to hear. They were attempting so pathetically to come at each other as if their whole lives were at stake. Oh forget the eating-up-everything-with-bare-hands-and-then-cleaning-the-hands-with-my-awesome-black-shirt because you have become a bare faced jackass, my old chum, what was that all talking of funny clips posted on social networking website part about? Lame. And there were oh-so-pathetic attempts on lamest jokes ever heard. What the heck was that mimicking Mr. Bean part about, while everyone watched you in pity? Why were you smoking tobacco, my old chum? What are you like 17, right? My old chum, you were the worst character and very uncool when you were calling me ‘your boyfriend’ because you had nothing else to bitch about. Now please tell me, which lunatic person proclaimed that old is always gold and old pals are mystically united with a holy thread and nothing can part them when I can see that you’ve become moth-eaten in your hostel in just two years. Sometimes, cute chicks grow into wild and ugly biddies and you’re that wild and ugly biddy and when you’re like that, you should understand that people can get scared to death when you open your mouth. Silence is your only option, it’s golden! And then there were my pals Qz and Saim, who were quiet but they had this huge grin on their faces unlike me, I don’t know what were they thinking but I didn’t find my perfect cushion to fall on – in anyone. Nope.
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Where am I and how far is it to heaven?
Monday, May 9, 2011
by B.H.
Where am I and how far is it to heaven?
I’m ready to go; I had fastened the Belt
Too long ago!
So letting it go –– and crossing the brink ––
Bonnets may blow –– in the wind!
For I dwell not anymore –– upon Graven Ink
Old –– we grow with Desires that float to sink ––
Eventually though.
But – dare I steal the quill feather ––
of your white-hot hat, ma’am?
So the ink could flow –– to heal the kink.
Where am I and how far is it to heaven?
How odd it sounds!
Like those violet rifts ––
Within the grey clouds in cerulean sky
Exceptions!
Goodbye to the life I used to live
Kiss the Flowers and the Hills for me ––
Bid the Rainbows goodbye!
And look upon the times just once
When I tended the daisies for you ––
‘Twas the smallest hour of all
That felt longer than a century ––
Stepped onto the falls together
And brushed the summers by.
I will send You – this Gem from my ring ––
How dim it sounds –– like the murmur of the Bee –– on a rainy day –
Rustle of the fencing –– in the longest night
I’m ready to go to the town –
Strewn with the Down
Where autumn leaves glow as ruby across the walkways
And there! The poetess of my dreams!
Such a small room she keeps.
Almost contented people. Bliss, Oh Lord!
Where am I and how far is it to heaven?
How fair it sounds!
When I lie down and hear the murmur of Nature ––
And sleep ––
On the heavenly grounds.
- B. Etch.
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Spam
Monday, February 14, 2011
by B.H.
Not after very long, some people unlock their true selves when they are done pretending to be good (read: being what they are not). And how shamelessly they expose. Normally, there are chances that the smashingly flamboyant show of truthfulness at every step of a person has to do something with their inner trait called selfishness. Like today I saw a person opening up the real them. You! I don't really care you know but I have a problem with you. Notion is simple. I think people like you should not exist, your existence is something ridiculously absurd, it's beyond my understanding. The fact 'you exist' is a fact due to some serious technical error. "Your existence" is painful and dangerous to human race Do this wonderful world a favor and please die. You broke a friend's heart, you treat people like trash and I can't be happy when one of my friends is not. Even if he weren't a friend, what you did to a person was totally unfair. I wish your would be half witted better half is a would be bald-headed gentleman but you're too blindly in love to notice that. I really hope you step on a Lego set barefooted. How I wish you have a writer's block workaday and especially during exams. I wish you suffer from the real insomnia. I wish you forget your admit card in your favorite subject's exam. I hope the last page of your favorite 1000 page novel is missing. I hope you write a poem and your favorite poet plagiarizes it. I hope you download the wrong torrent everytime you try to download Black Swan, you wanted my DVD right? Die! I hope there's no loo when you barely can stand. I hope your boyfriend dumps you for some Razia Bibi from Sialkot. I hope your daddy is in your bookface with fake account named Ryan Bieber and you don't know. I hope Mark Zuckerberg himself bans your ugly existence from bookface. I hope your driver hits on you nonstop. I hope you never see a shooting star. I hope you live a life without chocolates. I hope it rains dead crows on you. I know you wronged. We all do, but there's a limit, you cross it like you don't give a fudge. I really hope you make amends. I seriously do - not because I care for you or something. But because I care for the other people around you. Ugh. Enough attention.
Solace
Monday, October 18, 2010
by B.H.
They sat by the lake – secluded yet together
Along with the torn letter’s pieces to smother
And then Autumn passed by –– And He took it all away…!
“Their secret’s been revealed –– Yet they have told no other”
I give up before I even think about starting it. Such diffidence – I have not experienced.
There’s so much in grate to combust for –– that can lighten up the whole series of the darkest nights.
But still, there’s an invisible push –– the lethal weight pressing down on me like a rotten society’s slants that keeps one low –– low as a thrall, grasps one by one’s wings, plucks its feathers oftentimes and –– keeps one low, in the dwelling –– from flying.
The hands, –– as transparent as water, as mighty as a lion, as keen as an owl, as nimble as a deer, press me downwards in a hallow hole –– in an abyss so deep that it takes centuries to fall and once I fall painlessly, it presses down on me even more inside the shallow rubbles until I penetrate them and get swallowed up by the abyss and eventually forget –– everything I once remembered.
I’m done with hoping, I’m done with dreaming, I’m done with trying.
Let’s pretend now. “Look what I’ve found… A raw hope – a wingless bird!”
Let’s walk with it – till we part.
And because, it feels good… Somehow, it makes me want to walk. Somehow… someway, I like to walk, when I’m with you.
Such lonely lives in togetherness! Tsk! Tsk! Tsk!
And ultimately the push will say: “Cull the no-hopers from the herd!”
Help. Solace. Oh God. The push is mightier.
Aghast!
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Life is a Fickle Persistence
Monday, September 20, 2010
by B.H.
It’s funny, when life happens to anyone, none can define. It’s neither like one’s ennui in barbershop nor like one’s fright while roaming with a fiend in an unknown market.
It’s funny to see the sunshine and the rain – at the same time and to be hopeless and the luckiest at the same time. Even nature makes fun of you.
It’s funny you have something, but you’re not supposed to own it. It’s like the feelings of a kid in a bakery, gazing savory pastries with sheer craving. I don’t know how but I find it funny.
It’s funny when you find your flair, none’s there to appreciate. When you master the art of crying on walls and pillows, they offer shoulders. When you are (happily) numb, someone actually starts loving you. It’s just funny.
It’s funny, when the only thing you are supposed to trust – brainpan doesn’t respond to the fixes you’re in – at times.
It’s funny when you’re the brightest yet the dingiest gem.
It’s funny when you care (give a damn)… Yes it is amusing!
It’s funnier when you get used to this fickleness of life’s persistency.
And eventually you start learning breaking away every twist and turn – malevolently adorned – of the pathway – that is supposed to lead you towards the terminus. It serves you its swinging random lanes for the repast in a crooked fashion – to scare you. But you hate not it anymore. Life… Is a fickle persistence and we are the meek grace. It dances in its ways in its folly like a kite up above the sky. It is just funny when you exist only – to follow the rites and go with the flow to curb yourself away from the taboo term called ‘rebel’.
Funny when you wage a war against nothingness and eventually you lose.
And
It was the last day of the perch. It’s time to fly again. I just hope the new sun brings smiles and happiness anew. I have been told that I am bright, brighter than the sun.
So, I must fight every eclipse I face, and regain the light.
Because I have ‘something’ worth fighting for. I am indeed the luckiest boy on this planet I believe. And hopelessness, I will conquer! God will help.
And as Emily Dickinson would put in,
"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
If hope is the thing with feathers... Then hopelessness should be unfeathered.
=)
It’s funny to see the sunshine and the rain – at the same time and to be hopeless and the luckiest at the same time. Even nature makes fun of you.
It’s funny you have something, but you’re not supposed to own it. It’s like the feelings of a kid in a bakery, gazing savory pastries with sheer craving. I don’t know how but I find it funny.
It’s funny when you find your flair, none’s there to appreciate. When you master the art of crying on walls and pillows, they offer shoulders. When you are (happily) numb, someone actually starts loving you. It’s just funny.
It’s funny, when the only thing you are supposed to trust – brainpan doesn’t respond to the fixes you’re in – at times.
It’s funny when you’re the brightest yet the dingiest gem.
It’s funny when you care (give a damn)… Yes it is amusing!
It’s funnier when you get used to this fickleness of life’s persistency.
And eventually you start learning breaking away every twist and turn – malevolently adorned – of the pathway – that is supposed to lead you towards the terminus. It serves you its swinging random lanes for the repast in a crooked fashion – to scare you. But you hate not it anymore. Life… Is a fickle persistence and we are the meek grace. It dances in its ways in its folly like a kite up above the sky. It is just funny when you exist only – to follow the rites and go with the flow to curb yourself away from the taboo term called ‘rebel’.
Funny when you wage a war against nothingness and eventually you lose.
And
It was the last day of the perch. It’s time to fly again. I just hope the new sun brings smiles and happiness anew. I have been told that I am bright, brighter than the sun.
So, I must fight every eclipse I face, and regain the light.
Because I have ‘something’ worth fighting for. I am indeed the luckiest boy on this planet I believe. And hopelessness, I will conquer! God will help.
And as Emily Dickinson would put in,
"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
If hope is the thing with feathers... Then hopelessness should be unfeathered.
=)
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The end – that was too soon
Sunday, September 12, 2010
by B.H.
“Stand up. Stand up. Make the difference. This world needs you. Your people need you. They expect SOMETHING from you. Stand up. You’re not supposed to give up. Stand up.” Advices and bitter glares… Blah!
It hit me like a rub-a-dub of any remixed mystic sonata, like some epic myth that has been resurfaced in my head, like a movie that you love the most – and sadly it contains those two little words in the end – the end.
The daze I am facing has been infinitely long and unusually epic that – I should have foreseen. Water not the wrong plant, I hear. But it’s not just enough to abjectly wipe off the teardrops away, far away! Because. They come back –– like the cuckoo’s call echoes in the vales –– again and again, over and over. So, I burn the left-over pieces and fly the ashes in the airs and burry the rest in the backyard and water the grave and adorn the plant inside and see it, hate it, regret it. I try. I try, I pant, I cry, I grasp the pages and screech and tear. I imagine myself running backwards, there – where I’d once started from. Hopeless on the green signal, I know that the heartache will not cease, it will not.
Beacon, we must reach out to, climb up and on and run through the hollow and the craggy dazes, against despairing storms –– pushing backwards, making us –– the buffeted –– lose the race completely –– is the negativity that we must curb.
To whispers and echoes – I must pay heed not.
Putting an end to it… The End.
It hit me like a rub-a-dub of any remixed mystic sonata, like some epic myth that has been resurfaced in my head, like a movie that you love the most – and sadly it contains those two little words in the end – the end.
The daze I am facing has been infinitely long and unusually epic that – I should have foreseen. Water not the wrong plant, I hear. But it’s not just enough to abjectly wipe off the teardrops away, far away! Because. They come back –– like the cuckoo’s call echoes in the vales –– again and again, over and over. So, I burn the left-over pieces and fly the ashes in the airs and burry the rest in the backyard and water the grave and adorn the plant inside and see it, hate it, regret it. I try. I try, I pant, I cry, I grasp the pages and screech and tear. I imagine myself running backwards, there – where I’d once started from. Hopeless on the green signal, I know that the heartache will not cease, it will not.
Beacon, we must reach out to, climb up and on and run through the hollow and the craggy dazes, against despairing storms –– pushing backwards, making us –– the buffeted –– lose the race completely –– is the negativity that we must curb.
To whispers and echoes – I must pay heed not.
Putting an end to it… The End.
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The Promise
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
by B.H.
.jpg)
Tick drop tock drip tick drop tock drip was what one could hear in that shallow twilight.
The noise of the wall-clock and the leaking pipe in the bathroom –– was quite grudgingly harsh to him in that silent twilight.
It wrote,
“I prevail. I prevail –– as a lowly slave.”
“It’s passing, it’s consuming me from inside and outside –– the times –– tabooed times.”
Another second passed, followed by another – the hand moved and went on, and then trembled a minute – and a minute melted into an hour followed by another hour and hours and hours.
The miles and the hours.
Tick tock, drip drop. Tick tock, drip drop. Tick tock, drip drop...
It wrote, “I’ll bend space and gravity, only if...”
The visions – blurred, emotions numbed and a sob unthinkingly was heard.
It slightly shed off the eye and made a way for the others to come; some followed it while others made their own ways. The tears they were, gleaming waterfalls against the room-light from the dark one could see. Trickling twinkles. Tick tock, drip drop. Teardrops embellished the cheeks like stars do to the sky.
Sobs.
The thunders of restlessness rumbled all over the place.
It wrote, “My thirst for you has become vampiric.”
Tick tock, drop, tick, drip, tock, drop, tick, drip, tock…
The night had risen over the world and covered it like a shawl. The night it was.
The dark and the room-light and…
A broken heart, a pain –– seared,
It wrote again, “I’d dive far below the oceans… I’d fly far above the clouds… only if…”
“None is to be blamed, oh my love. I hope you’re fine. I hope.”
Silent in disbelief, with awkward clingy emotions – he was. At square one – he was. He was.
The death each moment – he embraced.
Music played: “With every kiss and every hug you’ve made me fall in love.”
And silence crept again. Tick, drip, tock, drop, tick, drip, tock, drop, tick, drip, tock, drop…
It wrote then, “Only if I could lie within your soul and mind… and in your arms.”
And, “I’d sell it all… all my materialistic treasures.”
Music played: “Tum bin jaa’un kahan, ke dunya mein aa ke – kuch nehi chaha….”
The swollen eyes watered the sear cheeks again. The heart moaned. And then it wiped off them, all of them.
[What does he hide? Behind those scarred humid eyes.]
And it wrote, “You are my strength, and I shall keep the promise, I shall never fall apart, I shall mend my heart, even before it breaks.”
“I shall keep the promise and you will keep it too.”
“I hear, miracles happen.” Hand trembled, but he continued in imperfections. “For roses can bloom amongst the wrinkled rocks.” “For water can spurt in oasis in midst of deserts” “And if needles and threads could not do it, I shall mend it with love –– that is still alive.”
“Distances are mere a frail thread, our love is the robust string.”
The night was young, but the feelings were feeble.
Tock, drop, tick, drip, tock, drop, tick, drip…
The night kept on growing. Seconds passed. Minutes passed. Hours gone by.
And a dewdrop fell from the heaven on a leaf outside his window; it smiled at him and fell asleep on that very leaf, he saw it sleeping and waited for the sun to rise.
And then the sun fought its way up the horizon. Beams came in from the window and he saw the halos.
It was a new day, but the promise was the same.
The noise of the wall-clock and the leaking pipe in the bathroom –– was quite grudgingly harsh to him in that silent twilight.
It wrote,
“I prevail. I prevail –– as a lowly slave.”
“It’s passing, it’s consuming me from inside and outside –– the times –– tabooed times.”
Another second passed, followed by another – the hand moved and went on, and then trembled a minute – and a minute melted into an hour followed by another hour and hours and hours.
The miles and the hours.
Tick tock, drip drop. Tick tock, drip drop. Tick tock, drip drop...
It wrote, “I’ll bend space and gravity, only if...”
The visions – blurred, emotions numbed and a sob unthinkingly was heard.
It slightly shed off the eye and made a way for the others to come; some followed it while others made their own ways. The tears they were, gleaming waterfalls against the room-light from the dark one could see. Trickling twinkles. Tick tock, drip drop. Teardrops embellished the cheeks like stars do to the sky.
Sobs.
The thunders of restlessness rumbled all over the place.
It wrote, “My thirst for you has become vampiric.”
Tick tock, drop, tick, drip, tock, drop, tick, drip, tock…
The night had risen over the world and covered it like a shawl. The night it was.
The dark and the room-light and…
A broken heart, a pain –– seared,
It wrote again, “I’d dive far below the oceans… I’d fly far above the clouds… only if…”
“None is to be blamed, oh my love. I hope you’re fine. I hope.”
Silent in disbelief, with awkward clingy emotions – he was. At square one – he was. He was.
The death each moment – he embraced.
Music played: “With every kiss and every hug you’ve made me fall in love.”
And silence crept again. Tick, drip, tock, drop, tick, drip, tock, drop, tick, drip, tock, drop…
It wrote then, “Only if I could lie within your soul and mind… and in your arms.”
And, “I’d sell it all… all my materialistic treasures.”
Music played: “Tum bin jaa’un kahan, ke dunya mein aa ke – kuch nehi chaha….”
The swollen eyes watered the sear cheeks again. The heart moaned. And then it wiped off them, all of them.
[What does he hide? Behind those scarred humid eyes.]
And it wrote, “You are my strength, and I shall keep the promise, I shall never fall apart, I shall mend my heart, even before it breaks.”
“I shall keep the promise and you will keep it too.”
“I hear, miracles happen.” Hand trembled, but he continued in imperfections. “For roses can bloom amongst the wrinkled rocks.” “For water can spurt in oasis in midst of deserts” “And if needles and threads could not do it, I shall mend it with love –– that is still alive.”
“Distances are mere a frail thread, our love is the robust string.”
The night was young, but the feelings were feeble.
Tock, drop, tick, drip, tock, drop, tick, drip…
The night kept on growing. Seconds passed. Minutes passed. Hours gone by.
And a dewdrop fell from the heaven on a leaf outside his window; it smiled at him and fell asleep on that very leaf, he saw it sleeping and waited for the sun to rise.
And then the sun fought its way up the horizon. Beams came in from the window and he saw the halos.
It was a new day, but the promise was the same.
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Boredom notes,
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Solid Masks
Monday, August 23, 2010
by B.H.
Life has been like a fickle friend to me – up until now. Witnessing of its changing colors has always been my hobby. So ridiculously absurd at times it seems that I feel like crawling in some hole and just giving up there, but you know, that happens. It’s completely normal.
And, they say there is always a string of defeats before every stunning victory, a series of scratches on the knees before one learns to ride his bicycle. It’s a fact, like the fact that it’s raining here at this very moment, like the fact that I am typing. [=P]
I am spending my vacations at home reading, doing stuff and waiting impatiently for the college to reopen.
Giving up isn’t good. Giving up isn’t good. Giving up isn’t good.
So
There is a little change I am going to make in the strategy and I just hope it works.
And.
Nothing. [=P]
Apart from that, I am seeing people, with two faces and some with three and four, strange species. Raavan type. And when they talk, they sound like plastic shopping bags –– that god awful noise when we fold or unfold plastic shopping bags. Eek! I don’t know I just imagine this, and frankly, they are like chickens to me, I’m not sure why though. Okay that’s verbose. [:P]
Funny it might sound but they act very nicely with you and try to insult you when others are around.
I have hired a black huge man to scare you away from me.
Now I’ve learnt to see your real faces that you hide behind the solid masks. [Yes, I was stupid enough not to see them before] And I plan on to pull the trigger before it gets rougher, tougher than before. I plan on to break up with every one who owns two faces.
Oh yes! I am pointing at you, and I am going to pull this trigger. Thwack! [:D].
It’s funny to see them trying to betray and lie to you when you know everything. Uff kya mushkil mushkil baatain. I was never like that. Besides, how old am I to talk like this? 18? >_<
Peace!
And, they say there is always a string of defeats before every stunning victory, a series of scratches on the knees before one learns to ride his bicycle. It’s a fact, like the fact that it’s raining here at this very moment, like the fact that I am typing. [=P]
I am spending my vacations at home reading, doing stuff and waiting impatiently for the college to reopen.
Giving up isn’t good. Giving up isn’t good. Giving up isn’t good.
SoThere is a little change I am going to make in the strategy and I just hope it works.
And.
Nothing. [=P]
Apart from that, I am seeing people, with two faces and some with three and four, strange species. Raavan type. And when they talk, they sound like plastic shopping bags –– that god awful noise when we fold or unfold plastic shopping bags. Eek! I don’t know I just imagine this, and frankly, they are like chickens to me, I’m not sure why though. Okay that’s verbose. [:P]
Funny it might sound but they act very nicely with you and try to insult you when others are around.
I have hired a black huge man to scare you away from me.
Now I’ve learnt to see your real faces that you hide behind the solid masks. [Yes, I was stupid enough not to see them before] And I plan on to pull the trigger before it gets rougher, tougher than before. I plan on to break up with every one who owns two faces.
Oh yes! I am pointing at you, and I am going to pull this trigger. Thwack! [:D].
It’s funny to see them trying to betray and lie to you when you know everything. Uff kya mushkil mushkil baatain. I was never like that. Besides, how old am I to talk like this? 18? >_<
Peace!
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The Isolation.
Monday, August 9, 2010
by B.H.
And again he starts walking on the hazy lands through hilly and hollow paths towards the beacon that appears so far – so obscure in the denseness of fog, and the mere feel of cold-white-smoky-tuft on the scars taken from past is numbing the traveler, breaking away of the tensity is difficult. But he keeps on walking, and this time he falls down and doesn’t get up for a while. Clumsy his – abilities might be, but he eyes there at the top of the mountain – there! The beacon calls. He leads again, grunts in pain and starts figuring out the path. The path is so blue and cold, with no lightening bugs in it, he can’t even figure out where the end is and where the start. Hindrance of time and toils – alone are good enough to make him fall down – give up. And now he bleeds, old scars taken from the dark pages of the ruthless past open their eyes to the cold fog, the blood seems to freeze and it pains infinite and he wishes to fall. He sways and swoons, falls on the misty dust, tries to crawl and slightly moans but is injured badly in the isolated journey, no one to save him, no one to cure the ailments. The beacon calls, but his eyes are shut, and he sees, the promises he made, the full moons of those nights spent with his better half he loved the most, the memories he saved, the giggles once he heard, the chirps and laughter are now a flickering flame that is fogged and tattered in the fog now.
Posted in
From:
A talk to solitude,
Bad times,
Being me,
Boredom notes,
Confessions,
Heck?,
Love,
Other,
Regrets,
Sometimes,
Stupid,
Suicidal
|
10 Comments »
That blue abyss
Thursday, July 29, 2010
by B.H.
With every beginning, there’s a corresponding end. Always I observe, before something –– that starts, something ends, before night trembles, twilight ceases, before it dawns the night has to melt; there’s always one side that has to lose hence the other side bags the victory.
Sun rises up, and sets in, some smile, some cry and some die but cosmos can’t care, and chirps are on even in the lowest of the low and never stop for deaths.
This rain is too ominous to be called ‘memorable’ in a sense, but we shall remember this rain always as a dark page of our chronicles. Plane crashed yesterday, a lot of people died, deaths everywhere, I see baleful darkness and reddest of the red –– blood, I hear the moans and cries of my people screaming out for their people, but death can’t care. And now, my friend, Bilal, he passed away a week ago, but I came to know about his demise now when the raindrops are striking the tin roof of the garage outside my window so hard that I can’t even concentrate what I’m thinking. I hate that noise; literally. Ill drops are descending the stairs everywhere, going low and low making me down and down. Every grief has its background music and vision. For me, it’s the noise of raindrops crashing on tin roof.
I am too confused and shocked to recall the memories of the moments that I spent with him in class. I don’t even know how he died; I just know that I lost someone, who used to sit beside me, who was with me when nobody was; there was a sparkle of loyalty in his eyes whenever he talked which I always overlooked, but that’s a stupid cliché I’d say. Because they say death makes a person more esteemed than ever. He was not my best friend and frankly I used to sit beside him only because he was always quiet and easy to endure. I am too low to write the memories. I feel too frail to type.
How is it like when you lose a friend, nobody taught me how to react. My parents never taught, my teachers never taught, they indeed taught me the ethics, algebra, physics but not about the death of a friend? They taught me about the every kind of losses in business. What about the loss of friend? Why did they not…? And today Bilal taught me through his demise that life… it is a fickle persistence, and death is blue abyss that is to be graced with our souls, death’s silence is heavy metal’s base, no one is to heal the death’s screams, no one is to stop it, it dances its way, away from cares, from the tears and the fears, life is a frail thread and death the robust string with a kite dancing in the skies too high in its folly, and it can’t be, no one can clip it to float it away. Death lies perfectly in life’s equation, he said. We won’t be ready and its manus will clutch us in, and will take our soul away from our dear and near ones leaving them with tears in their eyes and a corpse behind. Only tears… regrets and some memories that are too painful to recall.
And as Emily Dickinson would put in,
All but Death, can be Adjusted––
Dynasties repaired––
Systems –– settled in their Sockets––
Citadels –– dissolved––
Wastes of Lives –– resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs––
Death –– unto itself –– Exception––
Is exempt from Change––
Sun rises up, and sets in, some smile, some cry and some die but cosmos can’t care, and chirps are on even in the lowest of the low and never stop for deaths.
This rain is too ominous to be called ‘memorable’ in a sense, but we shall remember this rain always as a dark page of our chronicles. Plane crashed yesterday, a lot of people died, deaths everywhere, I see baleful darkness and reddest of the red –– blood, I hear the moans and cries of my people screaming out for their people, but death can’t care. And now, my friend, Bilal, he passed away a week ago, but I came to know about his demise now when the raindrops are striking the tin roof of the garage outside my window so hard that I can’t even concentrate what I’m thinking. I hate that noise; literally. Ill drops are descending the stairs everywhere, going low and low making me down and down. Every grief has its background music and vision. For me, it’s the noise of raindrops crashing on tin roof.
I am too confused and shocked to recall the memories of the moments that I spent with him in class. I don’t even know how he died; I just know that I lost someone, who used to sit beside me, who was with me when nobody was; there was a sparkle of loyalty in his eyes whenever he talked which I always overlooked, but that’s a stupid cliché I’d say. Because they say death makes a person more esteemed than ever. He was not my best friend and frankly I used to sit beside him only because he was always quiet and easy to endure. I am too low to write the memories. I feel too frail to type.
How is it like when you lose a friend, nobody taught me how to react. My parents never taught, my teachers never taught, they indeed taught me the ethics, algebra, physics but not about the death of a friend? They taught me about the every kind of losses in business. What about the loss of friend? Why did they not…? And today Bilal taught me through his demise that life… it is a fickle persistence, and death is blue abyss that is to be graced with our souls, death’s silence is heavy metal’s base, no one is to heal the death’s screams, no one is to stop it, it dances its way, away from cares, from the tears and the fears, life is a frail thread and death the robust string with a kite dancing in the skies too high in its folly, and it can’t be, no one can clip it to float it away. Death lies perfectly in life’s equation, he said. We won’t be ready and its manus will clutch us in, and will take our soul away from our dear and near ones leaving them with tears in their eyes and a corpse behind. Only tears… regrets and some memories that are too painful to recall.
And as Emily Dickinson would put in,
All but Death, can be Adjusted––
Dynasties repaired––
Systems –– settled in their Sockets––
Citadels –– dissolved––
Wastes of Lives –– resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs––
Death –– unto itself –– Exception––
Is exempt from Change––
An unanswered question
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
by B.H.
What do you see with your eyes closed? What do you see in a foggy morning? What do you feel in sleep? What is written on the moon? What does a goat think when she is alone? Where does the water go, where does it come from? Why does the thunder follow the lightening? Why does it rain? Why do we breathe? Why do you have to live?
These all questions have answers that I don’t want.
Teenage musings… change my life. Please.
Why does that star shine? What is God? Why is He? Why do these tears trickle down? Why do they stream? Why does it hurt right in the middle of my heart? Why do I love you? Why don’t you love me back? Why it has to be like this? Why not like that?
Possibilities are every where, spread all over –– more than dirt-grains in a dingy cemetery, more than the stars in the sky in a clear night from the highest point, more than all the flowers, from this corner to that corner of this planet. She tells ––– I listen.
Why does she tell me every time…? Dare I ask you something? She always tells me to dare? Why? I ask this time… She is speechless… She is still ––– motionless ––– still. I know she won’t talk –– answer.
I am the fickle existence ––– like weather.
Say something. Change my life. Please.
I beg, I moan.
I want this cliché to become a surprising event.
Posted in
From:
A talk to solitude,
Bad times,
Being me,
Being positive,
Heck?,
Stupid,
Suicidal,
Thoughts
|
7 Comments »
Haiku'd Birthday
Sunday, May 23, 2010
by B.H.
I had the best/cheapest birthday ever yesterday, and my day was constantly interrupted by my siblings' and a friend's creativity. And then my haiku challenge was accepted by my bro, cousin sis, dad and by a friend and they did not disappoint me. The response was so good, So, I decided to post all haiku here. Haha Billz rocked the challenge and then waris bagged 2nd position Aimz 3rd and Dad 4th! :D
So another year falls
Of my traveller-like life with
Some deeds undone
Of my traveller-like life with
Some deeds undone
***pardon me, If I've breached 5-7-5 uncool syllable rule***
My bro Bilawal's:
Aren’t you so fancy
To think of this little game?
Here, I’ll humor you
To think of this little game?
Here, I’ll humor you
In vain I create
Something great so I can win
I’m competitive
Birthday cheers to you
This is your gift by the way
So enjoy it now
I could get mushy
Really, what would be the point?
You know how I feel
I’d write like you
But sigh it is my vacation
So my brain’s shut off
Instead I’ll just write
Bro, you always rock my world
Now repeat after me
Waris':
I’ll try to be cool
with a fun birthday greeting
that rhymes a bit too!
Aimz's:
Another year young
Loved by family and friends
Happy Birthday bro
Dad's:
A Birthday Haiku
That is a dumb idea
I shall not do it
I dislike haiku
I wish you wouldn’t want it
Still, Happy Birthday
That is a dumb idea
I shall not do it
I dislike haiku
I wish you wouldn’t want it
Still, Happy Birthday
My dad's haiku was really fun, We were litterally rolling on floor laughing out loud, These deeds of love mean a lot to me :D How can I ever thank/repay you guys for making this day so special for me! specially my dad, I Love my dad more than any thing!! *heart*
And since it was my birthday... So I penned a quick written kind of poem last night as well...
.
.
Year Fall- Saal Gira
.
Thus another year of my traveller-like life falls down,
With some deeds undone, few words unsaid,
Wafted away with whispering winds and dried leaves
Took away my living togetherness and dying lonliness
Every moment passing - my journey towards a house
A house that is mere a pile of clay - my grave - my home
Like others around this year knew no loyalty -
For It also left- with some stars unseen, some tears unshed...
Broken Notes
Friday, April 9, 2010
by B.H.
Bahadur Hussain
(ambitious amateur)
Today, the sun is happily shining for it has no worries. And it maybe a cliche to every one. But, today these happy beams of the sun are burning the edges of my soul and cutting the wings of my heart. As I feel caged in my freedom. And the agonizing feeling of being an ambitious amateur is even more painful. It’s a kind of state where hot beams of happy day touches you frigidly. Where the voices of beloveds quietly surround your broken existence. Pieces of your shattered hope shatter more. And where the peaceful serenades of love and affection sound bitter and sad. And the dirt of land and the smoke of vehicles of a brightened day seem autumn mist and fog of a dark night. Where hustle bustles spread all over as the sounds of mourning of funerals. If someone walks on green grass, it turns into brown dried leaves of autumn, where one can not imagine things like blessing, luck but only curse…My pen traces out these ailing words today, the words of my dreadful soul. And for a moment with little spans utter silence triumphs all over the place when the foggy visions trickle as twinkling tears on this fluffy carpet of my room. As I feel abased, dejected and of no use…!
(ambitious amateur)
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