searching for hope in shut eyes eyelashes wet that cry the distressed soul lets out a sigh why why why cant we see eye to eye how could i own what is not mine pain that pursues me online her beauty her form divine away in the wastelands i sit and pine
that wont leave the darkness of my soul dark as dark as charcoal my poetic angst that floats on the back like a dead fish in a glass bowl a part of me she stealthily stole a part without which i cannot be whole leaving me in pain in a hell hole as my hopes flow down a sinkhole i seek her through my cameras eye hole up and down her memories i scroll my body is lifeless she has my controls she is my systems console to cause me pain as long as i live her cosmic goal
he knows what i am going through he knows how my poets heart she slew what was left out of a window she threw doomed deleted from my world she withdrew a warrior queen goddess loved by a shia hindu poetic justice but true jesus tells wait one day she will come back to you a lifetime friend all new
doomed deleted sweet and nice she hides herself from my eyes all those promises all those lies the soul yearns the spirit cries as time flies broken dreams broken wings the poet dies bequeathing a hell half the price of paradise
pehle ka lotewala taste ab nahi ata hai sach much panipuri ka pehla jaisa luft yad ata hai woh kharand woh lajawab lote ka maza lautaieye hame phir se apne pasina apna peshab dal kar pani puri khilayie ye
He is a man I respect the most in my tailoring fraternity and he reminds me of my Dad who was respectfully called Shakir Master .
Perhaps I see my dad in him , but he is a sober man cultured and humble unlike my dad who was colorful robust and a hardcore romantic , my dad was good looking in a rakish way.
Dhirubhai is a simple man , in the trade since 1963 his clientele is intact and keeps growing from one generation to the next though sadly Dhirubhai is the last of his generation , as his children all well settled are million light years away from tailoring.
His two daughters are well settled in United States of America, they call him every day , his daughter Geeta lives with him to serve him , though she is married and well settled too in Mumbai Ghatkopar.
His one son Ravi moved to Ahmedabad and the other son my dear friend is a doctor , the only Hindu doctor with the la…
the greatest mockery on any feast day or during election voting counting votes time by the way is a eponymous venomous dry day when they lock up the bars restaurants wine shops throw the keys away but dont worry every street corner near yacht janta deepa it is easily available they say as a parcel take away even if the contents are nakli you are a bewda you will fuckin drink it anyway i have gone through the vicious cycle of alcoholism it ran in my bloodstream every day,, but hafta corruption scam is in our blood how will it ever go away so bewda joints addas call the dry day their all saints day they pay get away...counterfeit booze zindabad on the highway nothing more to add or say games that our ministers play...holding our balls at ranson..from the system you just cant get away..
from a reformed teetotaler to the bewda a Happy Maharashtra Day..keep…
silence kills her silence a sweet bitter pill on a slow fire the poets heart liver spleen she grilled her last wish executed brilliantly finished before she caught the last train home vanished never to be seen or heard again from her world he was duly banished poetry passion pain pathos anguish lament languish piping hot garnished haleem served as her favorite dish to her 3 little bears stout stocky fattish
warrior queen goddess arrogant conceited pompous proud selfish choked the life of a poetic pristine friendship her kohl laden dewy eyes her Cleopatra nose her gazelle like neck her pout her pillow lips arched curvy eyebrows sensuous luscious finger tips holding a cat o none tails the back of the poet she horsewhipped tight lipped his heart from his body she ripped the rest of the gory details i have duly skipped
but i believe his blood with relish in a wine glass she sipped her divine…
morbidity blood tears and sweat he came under the karmic wheels of her car died as he had lived on the internet his lifes last sunset he leaves his mark on the soul of poetry a positive spam in her debt his number on her hand set finally his poems have found an outlet beyond the abyss of her toilet unflushed emotions she wont forget jab we met bad karma deleted doomed bad kismet
khuda hafiz alvida rest in peace beggar poet its better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all she sighed showed her regret a debauched moment his madness his craziness she will soon forget
the lashes continue they wont stop blood trickles like rain drops on a window pane of the back non stop a fiddler on the rooftop serenading the soul of silence dark gloomy backdrop a wordsmith in a rusty dingy workshop emotions evolving revolving going flippity flop
for a few seconds she was in my hands a dove a bird of paradise bluish white than she felt choked suffocated she took flight i am still holding a part of her in my hands airtight my darkening mornings my lightning nights in my mind out of sight wrong and right spectral light shadows highlights with a sword of silence my soul she smites