The new poem that i wrote...

Nothing New

I wake up, still sleepy, to my dreadful alarm,
The bed is welcoming, the sheets so warm,
I know I’d love to go back but I can’t,
Clichéd it may be but, “Life is not always about what you want…”

So I do my chores and say my prayers,
I watch TV, appreciate those players,
But in my mind, I know there s nothing to do,
I am tired of this life, of so much ado…

I just eat and drink and sleep,
The nothingness and lull makes me weep,
I just wish I was back in the crowd (My bloody College),
It would be heaven, I would be so proud…

Too much serenity is a dose of pain,
My days seem to while away in vain,
The daily routine so fuckin’ empty,
I want to do something a lil’ naughty…

I sit and wait at the window in dismay,
“Should I turn on the TV and … , Nay”,
Life is so boring and jaded,
All the color and melody faded…

Time and time again I pace,
Up and down, like u rightly guess,
My mind is clean like a slate,
Hope of activity and adventure, not too great…

The uproar within is so hard to repress,
The clot of inaction is really dense,
This time is lost and it is getting dark,
It is sad to know, Coz’ we all want it BACK!!!...

So the birds return at the end of a tired day,
I just wish I had a way,
To fill my life with work and feats,
Move around and exercise my wits…


Alas I get my lone respite,
The lucid calmness in the night,
When most sleep and those who work are few,
I loathe this life with Nothing New…

A poem for vocab maniacs

CLOSURE OF A DULCET MASQUERADE

Oh how my hopes are wasted with,
The setting of the sun,
As the sky inhales its sapphire light,
So my tumult has begun…


Then how my Lady Somnolence,
Comes to hold my shattered hand,
I will not hear the Spartan’s fife,
As I fall asleep tonight…


The haunting, pale darkness,
The eye of the curmudgeon wanders,
Through a stoic abeyant void,
Psyche’s wicked colloid...


The silence holds not sanity,
Just a concave minded wretch,
Yet, quiescence is a comfort,
To me a forlorn derelict...


Specters dance on withered fences,
While hindsight draws me hither into the trenches,
For only there can I see my shattered
Hand, betwixt with moonlight braids…


The solacing joint betrays its breath,
Elemental senses no longer employed,
Palpitating marbled chamber dies,
Thoughts of privation engulf my mind…


The bleeding heart of excruciating misery,
Will be a part of everlasting memory,
Within the twilight garden grim,
The petals of crimson sway…


Learn all the ways there are to die,
Rumination of the act,
Await the tears to call me home,
I hear my own silent drone…



My mind is like my sorrows now,
I will never dream again, I vow,
A glimpse of what I used to be,
Blurs the line of reality…

Left Pavement Warlords - An Introduction

Faces of beautiful women, with scarlet lips and murderous smiles, a large castle full of majestic paintings of the Victorian age, a jar with lot of whiskey in it, cold zephyr tearing through the old oaks, and a tall thin guy clad in a black led Zeppelin T-shirt, (sounds totally out of place, we all must agree!), are just some glimpses of the berserk dreams that inhabit my brain at nights when I try to sleep on the ramshackle bed in my room at hall-1, which closely resembles the old shed where John Wilkes Booth spent his last night trying to hide from the furious Americans whose last soul of equality he took away. I hope you know who the hell I am talking about when I talk about John and if you don’t you may just as well count the number of the words in this really long line instead of counting poor old sheep and go off to sleep…




p.s – If this worries you, then please take heed that I am not here to overwhelm you. I am just another of your kind who is stuck up in a place that his mind never wants to be in. I just want to let my imagination run free (which, by the way seems to be my only freedom) and rest assure all of you, that if you do the same, you can complete this very sentence yourself… (Without copying from your neighbor like you always do!!)

p.s – I presume I am most likely to be forgiven for my Amazonian sentences. This is purely a matter of habit.


JUST READ ON …