Clamped in suburban vibes,
Catastrophe and solitude,
The skies are burning wide,
Songful writer of disgrace,
Eating from an ice-cream come,
Outside the city gates,
With cancer in his nerves.
They forsake his roasted brain,
To let it be and be alone,
Looking into the shattered mirror.
What did it say to you,
With mouth wide open and eyes squinted in abandonment?
It told me a story,
I have it within myself.
It speaks little more than my subdues leaves of flame.
Spellbound heart of mine,
Let life happen,
And let them laugh.
Someday you shall laugh along.
I am displaying before you a menagerie of beautiful words by beautiful people, put into sentences that could inspire all-
- Let life happen to you. Believe me: life is in the right, always. – Rainer Maria Rilke
- Nobody deserves your tears, but whoever deserves them will not make you cry.- Gabriel Garcia Marquez
- The best way to find out if you can somebody is to trust them.- Ernest Hemingway
- I don’t hate people. I just feel better when they aren’t around.- Charles Bukowski
- The best revenge is massive success.- Frank Sinatra
- Life would be so wonderful if only we knew what to do with it.- Greta Garbo
- If you tremble with indignation at every injustice, then you are a comrade of mine.- Che Guevara
- You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.- Vladimir Nabokov
- In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me lay an invincible summer.- Albert Camus
- The unexamined life is not worth living.- Socrates
Yeah, I am publishing this post again. Though it is only with the call of time, am I doing this. But have I improved? That is all I want to ask. Some people said that I had found a voice of my own, some said that I had found a style. Also in my latest poem, using incomplete (hanging) sentences received mixed opinions. What do you think? You may also give me any useful criticism ( the decorator of everyone’s writing), or you greatly appreciated words of praise. Have a wonderful day ahead!
A gloomy day an an unworthy end,
You ask me for my wallet and my hand.
I give you the lights that hide beneath my eyes,
Where I see the world beyond.
I can tell you are up with a smile,
It's own your face, it's in your words.
You jump of a parachute,
And you land in the swamps.
I can beside you,
Every moment passes on.
You are fine.
I ask for a penny and you hand it to me,
You call it the starriest night in history.
But I'm dumbfounded,
And I wait.
And I ask you what it means.
You say it's a verse that you wrote,
Seventy years ago,
In another birth.
But you're gone,
And you're numb.
You can no longer feel.
Time has begun.
Because you are a part of the world,
And you can't run away.
There are angels watching out,
And there are people coming you way.
No one is waiting.
You are silent.
You are drowned.
You are still alive.
You are lying in an operation theater,
Your painkiller is running out, you back aches.
You are hungry and you are depressed.
The future awaits.
Can you live?
Be my friend,
And I shall tell you the truth,
You shall be okay.
Love and grief,
Mistakes and revenge.
Are you alive?
It isn't over yet.
I told you to be my friend,
And I dreamed through the night.
But you're no longer fine.
Long time, It is not over yet. Until then,free from the hinges which bond together us all in in inorderly disgrace. Thine master is a 'wanting man' Thine mistress is awaiting to-morrow, Let the mistress be my soul, The days of ecstasy are gone. Winter is coming. See me through it, My friend. I'm the night watchman of my grenadine.
The happiness and the bloom,
It is all over now.
I am wishing for so much,
There is nothing left to let be.
I wish I could dance to 'Lana Del Rey' every night and dance until my feat would ache so bad,
That I would lie down on my bed body flat thoughts twirled,
And write a poem that can change the world.
I wish I could stand here,
And write whatever I want,
Like a bird's call in the wild,
So lovely but so perforated.
I wish I could just spend,
And live forever,
Between those lines of prose so powerful that they stopped wars and changed winds,
Until I find myself with words of my own,
That I could treasure like the single gold in a poor man's treasury.
I wish I could collide the festivals and kneeling birders to create poetry, Which is warm inside of my colon like a gun.
I'll fire it forever, so you can suffer in shameful scent.
I wish I could eat the rotten world aloof, Like the sausages in my food. I'd pay a penny for a thought to come, That would give me a midnight sunset, An hour wrong after the cold winter noon.
Why do you dance, angel, So electrically that you magnetized the iron pins, Which like glue stick to my skin and bones, Like monotones, Blowing like breezes on my ocean heart. It pains when we laugh, 'cause I know we can't get away, So young and eccentric and swinging, Between crimson desert hue, On a winter day. Sugar coated cinnamon, It was for you that God created art, And it was for you that he created Italy, California, Paris and Poland; For your Bohemian eyes and pretty dresses, And words flowing out, Of your lavender lips, That told me to stop on my tracks. La-La-La, Whistles and Ultraviolence, You are back. So am I.
It’s a paranoid sensation that holds you back, like the perforated abyss that you try to stop yourself from falling into all the time, whereas you know it is exactly where you want to be deep aside. Be honest to yourself. Yeah true, but I could not find myself being stared at like the embroidery adorning a prince’s clothes, or being pushed at by the sentimentality of unorthodox celebration, like a wicked Mountain Man of a coastal land. It’s as crunchy as Turkish Delight, though as mysterious as midnight; the way I turned out, and what you turned me into. It’ as unexpectedly insane as it is heartening, you showed a blind man the world who has all other senses perfect, though you take away his logic. Or maybe to show a mathematics student that there are two equations; which yours and one his, and both have the same numbers on both the sides, though the signs are different. And of course, the solution would be different too. But I, driven by an impulse that I could never resist and never would, reap apart the added trouble of consequence and public opinion, and of course with my lack of originality, I went on and on, which seemed to make you happy, until one day you stopped me yourself. And so did many others, without telling it to me but simply knowing it, making my heartbeat faster with every word after. I wanted to change, but once again, deep inside I didn’t.
When I met you, you were like a little child pretending to be grown-up. You were unaware of your own self, and people were only an abomination standing upon you; your soul, whom you lived for but did not care for. It went on like this; six months, when you took a vacation to that beach-sided exotic town, which I believe is exactly where you lost some part of your awkwardness. Having come back, you were a different person; yes, that is exactly when you learnt the art of not being ordinary. You were much better, much more seismic, and that is when I began to get scared. I felt dazed. I felt mistaken. I tried to fix myself, what’s not broken is unfixable. I can only be better. However, I only worsened and worsened, shed blood and tears, which was intensified by the dreary chronicles of winter that repeat itself each year sparkling the same tragedy, (and it only seems to get bad each year). And then there was the Paris trip, where I learnt exactly how to hate. It had always been a hidden part of my soul, but it was then that I tried my best. Winter weakened and died and I began to smile, even if only for a shadowed while. But people aren’t all that mean, you thought, and you know better about how it is. That’s when I realized that I did actually want to be like you. It was February, I guess when I wrote my first piece of writing after a period of 7 months through which I had passed several gates. And it was then that your words came crying, ‘Stop! You really need to fix myself!” I tried a while. I failed. I failed a little better the next time. And that is when I gave up. I continued being the same, getting only more stupid with the guilt of time.
Until I opened a new window for myself. I enjoyed success, but not criticism, and that is when it once again all came crashing over me, people’s words. Yes. But this time I worked hard. And Saturday Nights were always waiting. I learnt to be happy. I learnt to be call myself a terrible person,(which was one of the worst things I ever did in form of my navel-gazing that was evil not only to myself but to you too). I am doing my best. I wrote again. I wrote the best thing I ever wrote. I shall be criticized, but this is one place where I shall take it without ado. And this was one of my incessant trials. I have had too many but life was always, yes it was, sweet like Turkish Delight.
It is now that matters, so another list! You are getting bored already.
With the world giving me so much, it is time that I show back my gratitude to it. All those pieces of art, or people were some of immense talent and beauty. Maybe you could try looking them up.
My favorite singers/ bands (Few added ones)
- Lana Del Rey
- Billie Eillish
- Dean Martin
- Bob Dylan
- Marina and the Diamonds
- Jeff Buckley
- Leonard Cohen
My favorite authors (Another few added)
- Gabriel Garcia Marquez
- T. E Lawrence
- Jack Kerouac
- Sylvia Plath
- Samuel Beckett
- Ernest Hemingway
- Virginia Woolf
- James Joyce
- There are a few on WordPress too!!!- (Watt, Short-Prose-fiction, Charlie Zero and Charlie country boy)
My favorites poets- (They remain almost the same)
- Allen Ginsberg
- Walt Whitman
- Kurt Cobain (he was a poet no less)
- There are a few great ones on WordPress too!!!- (David redpath, In Mind and Out and House of Heart)
Some great quotes (New ones!)
- He who fights with monsters must take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.- Friedrich Nietzsche
- Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.- Marcel Proust
- Every writer I know has trouble rioting.- Joseph Heller
- I am so happy because today I found my friends- they are in my head.- Kurt Cobain
- Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt- Kurt Vonnegut
- War is pice. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.- George Orwell
- I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.- Michelangelo
- Your mind will learn to answer most questions if you relax and wait for the answers.- William S. Burroughs
- America, why are your libraries full of tears?- Allen Ginsberg
- We are all born mad. Some remain so.- Samuel Beckett.
It has been one of my finest and my greats dreams- to write a novel, which presents itself as the yet purest and the ultimate form and aim of writing; a novel that goes on to be successful. I’ve compiled some ideas for the same, and it would be great to have you guys’ support and pieces of advice to make the best I can. the following are the ideas which I have-
- The first idea is that of a story, that deals with the idea of ‘America’ and it’s complications as a whole. Set in the Beat period, it shall consist of three main characters- a retired World War 1 pilot, a drunk writer- traveler, and a young man who dreams to get into Hollywood some day. The plot chases after the story of the 3 characters, until a point of their friendship with each other, where the shall find the similarities that they have. This shall be followed by a bunch of crazy happenings, a court scene, and a trip to Europe (which shall be the 2nd part). The second part shall mainly deal with the three of them backpacking through Europe, falling in love with the same time at the same time, and befriending and fooling until they day the die,
- This story plot, written in a single setting, consisting of 2 main characters- one who is very old, with just a few years to death, and the other who is a young vagrant, and to say the least, greatly dissatisfied. The story deals with them through a beautiful summer in a rural setting, as the two of them talk, argue and revolutionize each others’ philosophies, while helping each other at the same time, as the grow into two completely new people. Most of the story shall be written in conversation or in form of letters, with some poetic narrative in between.
- This shall be the most surreal of all the plots, written in greatly poetic style using beautiful words. Set in a fairytale-like world, I shall deal with a variety of people who live in a country filled with colors, old towns and an exotic charm, and completely happy. Describing this shall be the beginning of the story, until one day the people of the country shall suddenly realize how bored they are of their fantasy lives. What follows shall be a movement, and a festival to mark it, with everything that is after nothing but crazy.
Look up to people’s suggestions all day long, I have decided to remove the 4tg idea and now there are the 1st three which remain. Only makes it easier for me.