Divine complexion

It is like a city with an embedded waterfront; a city filed with street artists and musicians and even beggars, where shadows loom and voices rise and echo. It is like a city, bustling and dancing, crowded and gazing, though powerless. With a blind spirit, which only the realistically blind can see. And for those who are not, most of them are over-bored. And the others are… just gazing. Just looking and parting.

He is looking up and walking, with a miraculous gaze, as if daring the stars and the moonlit sky. His words seem to be immaculately witty, so fabulously arranged and so celestially poignant and powerful, as if they could speak all his poetry and his violence for him without a single doubt or an instinct left. It is written over his face and in his eyes. It is written in the flabbergasting confusion, that slow movement, that slowly turns into a song of cold winter ecstasy. He lets out a laugh. the city, fast asleep awakens to laugh with him.

He is dreaming as he is moving. It is an illusion that is blinding him; though it is night time, he can see an evening sun. He can see people’s souls. It is the light of the day he is seeing, it is the arising of himself and within, it is the impact of pieces and lines, criticisms and kindness, all that he ignored and all that he gave away, all those who wanted him to change, to grow into a better person, to find a voice; yes, to a find a voice that is unique and powerful, with the power to shatter glass and to break hearts, in echoing streams of consciousness that would last the world forever and youthful wild. At least he thinks it is. And at that point, he wakes up. He is drenched in force, and he runs, far and miles away. the people call but he does not have the time. In reality he does not have the need. He runs far far far away. And he is never to return. he has great strangers hearts, he makes new ones. He has a love of his life. He has an aim and a voice, a blooming flower and a song of himself………


Cruel World

If you know Watt, you know he has had better pieces. I wish him best of luck! And a Happpy Birthday.

Celluloid Trances

back, it seemed surreal that he had lost everything in a state of mind. People
always leave, they live like they’re leaving, and if he can’t do it, then they
do it better. He stretched his arms into the secrets of eternity, and in the
unreasonable, uncomfortable standstill confessed to himself what he had known
all along – he was alone.

was always alone. Forever.

Come nightfall, he pleaded, and drape him in hues of gloom, in the darkening sky, while the clouds twitched with mistakes. The jersey shirt he wore expanded as a royal umbrella for his shoes as he put his hands above his head, its white expanse wet with rain, and his chest cold, no dry eye either, it was just one drop of rain over another on his sighing skin. Radio waves grizzled in the air, and his hands dropped down and gripped the…

View original post 95 more words


A box of your words

Watt and In Mind and Out are two writers that are extremely amazing. Watt works with existentialism and she transcends in beauty and gaze.

In mind and out

I found, a faded dusty box.
Inside I found, not faded memories
but those shining as bright as a neon lamp
that I saw yesterday
Suggesting I go in

I opened the box.
And longing for a broken dream jumped out and sat on my heart
like an unexpected jack in the box
given life and lodging in a new home

Inside the box were your words.
I took your words out of the box
and I traveled
in and out of weeks, until the years collapsed
I touched your name like you once touched me
like my every freckle was a masterpiece

I held your words in my hands.
And read each word you wrote me hungrily,
like I was starving
I devoured your words again
and again
Until the paper was torn and covered with bite marks

In your words
I saw myself as you saw me,

View original post 99 more words


William Johnson

I don’t know why I am doing this, or whether I should do this or not, but I am deeply troubled by a blogger named William Johnson, who is intentionally harassing me, writing stupid comments on my posts, and even hacked it for a while before I complained to WP authorities. I don’t know how you all will react, but he is a terrible friend, with a very evil soul that he hides like his dumbness behind the curtain. Maybe I am taking credit, but I gave him the site title, tag line, and his 1st 100 followers. And he betrayed me for a reason which I don’t know yet. I introduced him to blogging so he could establish his talent and get inspirations from people around the world, but he rather used to irritate others and even disrespected my friends thelittlealchemyst and Watt. You can unfollow him if you desire, or do anything that you like, but please do not support him in his dumb meaninglessly horrendous writing filled with overuse and misuse of words.

And not only that, after I had given him multiple opportunities to put that behind him and move on, he kept on fighting; and just last night, he sent me a mail saying Could you please follow me? Please read me latest post. Give me feedback. And when I told him so, he kept on editing my comments and making them into things I would have never said otherwise.


The torn artwork

A torn artwork made of threads and grief,
Is lying down by God's side.
Naked, dirty, body of steel,
And ice cold,
Next to the window of feeling,
Feeling cold, heartless, depressed,
Like the days of the plague,
Are mourning the people,
With a half-covered waist,
And the dietitians of god,
With the holy sign on their wrist.

A torn artwork lies made of lies ad beads,
The beads make thoughts,
And thoughts make love.
the people waiting get to thinking,
Will we face the same fate some day?
Even if we make just a single mistake every day?
Or is this the work of god,
Watching us suffer here,
With a heart that's gruesome and cold.
That breaks every time a journey sends,
Is gravity his best friend?



I feel betrayed; how the world is turning back slowly and giving me back what I gave to it, or perhaps I wanted to give it, only in the opposite direction. It’s like I”m living a half lived life; a doubtful, somewhat dead life that seems so colorful to everyone, forgetting the dark side it hides compressed within it’s backyard. Should we be like the mineral deposits carried by a river, travelling through ages and ourselves as it starts from the mountains and then goes through beautiful valleys and dirty plains, until it lasts it deposits it’s load to form what they want of themselves?

Maybe it was all my mistake. My agony, my fiends, my acts of untrue friendship and escaping reality that sent me here; a prisoner at the gates, not knowing whether I stand out or I stand in. It’s like I am stuck up, knowing, living a virtual life that is unlovable, weak, ugly, maybe all the cusses high school boys use these days, and all the plastic that is said to be killing the environment, establishing what I call myself today. It’s the single speck of doing wrong, the single fear of people, of judgement, and as I would rather say, of myself, that haunts me through my dreams and on every step I take. Maybe if we would promise ourselves everyday that we would go without hurting asingle person, including ourselves, we would not be a lost jewel of the glimmering world anymore. Yet, I’m not so sure.



I long to live a life not lived,
One with a 60s tune on a mordern rift.
I want to live a life that’s alone,
One without people who keep up the score.
I want a life where there’s no such thing as time,
A life a bit far, maybe a little sublime?
I desire a life unheard of,
Where I can be wild and crazy without a piece of doubt.
I’d love a life without my sight,
A life where I could touch ever height.
What about a life like a bird’s cry,
With a wonderful laugh and a powerful voice?

Midnight colors

Beauty echoes through the mountains and beneath the trees,
I will wait, for the sun to shine for me.
My heart is beating fast, I am losing sight.
Maybe it was the drink and it was the fight.
But wait, it was something else.
It was the twinkling eyes,
Her angel voice.
Maybe I was being pushed down,
But holding on to her,
I was alive,
Dreaming of death and dreaming of love.

I saw a canvas in front of my eyes.
I painted it the midnight blue.
It was the color I saw in her eyes,
It was her aurora's hue.
Maybe I was scared,
And maybe I was drowned.
But all I saw then,
Was the masterpiece of God.
He had it speak.