Rower Of Sea Brewer Of Tea

me.

  They make fun.

  and they are just as like me,

  roaming around

  Purposeless

  making fun.

  ii

  I am not mad, singer

  nor do I think so,

  I am different I must insist,

  so that you can understand

  and know well

  I am not mad, singer

  I am unique, the one alone

  I am not the next Einstein,

  nor am any other famous

  I am the first

  the unique

  the mad

  X

  Sick, sick me who dream

  showing off all to so impress

  a word of praise I sweat

  rolling into one thousands of water

  Sick SICK.

  And then then what I get?

  A sugar cube to lick in anxiousness 

  for the response never had

  ok... ignore me.

  thank you.

  XI

  Take my desperation and agony for too long

  and make me a grain of salt which refuses to dissolve

  in the world sea of emotions

  make me a hollow bone of dog,

  which understand and feel nothing

  Take my desperation and agony for too long,

  make me a person who refuses to understand,

  the simplest emotions of life in all that happiness

  XII

  This starry night is not beautiful

  the star are twinkling and giggling

  not on the moon so vast and fat,

  but on me, the lover of name and fame

  money and everything insane

  stars are laughing their big hearty laugh

  they know I will die

  but still I run away from that and hide

  that I am just nothing.

  The stars laugh on the fact I think I am bright,

  but a bit of their shine will burn me alive,

  The stars chuckle on the fact I think I am big,

  but take thousands of earths altogether, smaller than them

  The star giggle and guffaw, on the my presumptions,

  on my thinking and my vanity.

  Stars say, laughing loudly,

  “Time, who changes everything to chorus,

  to destruction and disorder,

  will also take you away,

  the big chuck of matter,

  you are just nothing but bighead.”

  And you think they are beautiful, eh?

  XII

  Constrained Contained, Perceptive, Babaria

  In the sweet lust of green plants, Bare,

  and the heavily sparkling colors of cotton, wrapped,

  her sari;

  Babaria, dances, dances, dances,

  on the pain of crackled glass pieces upon grasslands,

  for the love and life of her own piece wrapped by inhumanity,

  for which temp'est roars, and torture her.

  II

  I

  i

  Even magic takes time. But if you are too rushed, constrained to a tight schedule, where is time? Where is time to understand this world blundered with tomatoes, onions, and capsicums? Time is now should not be wasted. But tell me, when time is washed? If you sit still watching the molten gold skies? Or if you simply waste away your life throwing yourself on tension of several assignment and work pending? Or only you like money building up like Empire state buildings? Or out of some time, you give at least some to talking to who you love?

  We all are here to work, and this work should be done. But out of this try to give some time to your life… try to get and give some happiness… not money. Try to get some time for your son or daughter? Even god rested the seventh day. Time can be easily managed, not from books, but going in systemic way which comes inherit in everyone, but none care to use it.

  So, I will not be impressed for a president who worked 20 hours a day and left his daughter trying to picture her dad’s face. Try to live… sometimes simply because your loves were first even before the others are first. Because happiness was first, even before money was first.

  ii

  The scene I see is a play of so many elements interlinked together that a silent grasp left my mouth. In this hugeness, no one can be the focus of the eyes, there are so many things. There is football on excitement, and a cricket speaking louder than a radio. There are rocks flying on the surface of the lake like fish, thrown by boys passing their times. So many people doing something or other. You cannot point someone and say “He is different”. But still, everyone is so different.

  II

  i

  Drowned by that sunlight

  she laughed, and she drowned in her own laughter

  her laughter lighted the air

  but I hear the laughter of no one singing with her

  her delight, her leisure in the way of walking

  and the trees and grass all around.

  I was pleased

  with that melody of her,

  that small hat wearing girl.

  ii

  In that gardens, stranger.

  There was a little girl, a small one…

  She was swinging, even though lonely she was

  she was smiling

  She looked all around her

  And saw the trees and skies

  And you know, stranger?

  those trees and skies sang with her,

  as she swings and swings.

  So happy, so happy.

  Stranger, but even she knew

  every best bliss,

  have to end.

  III

  Lovely lights,

  sparkling slowly,

  in towards the tunnels time,

  and me the heart's soft,

  loft around the dusty tunnel ways,

  lending me way to nowhere,

  somewhere existing,

  maybe it could be,

  but opening like a flower's bud,

  into a full bloomed flower.

  But I never be sure,

  when I call that flower

  full bloomed.

  IV

  Monotonous Monsters 

  with bloody fangs and stinking hairs

  every night, every day,

  every season and today.

  First night it was fear,

  then all dark room for the ears,

  and after that, all boring 

  everyday same luring

  V

  An old man is looking at you

  eye to eye

  face to face

  nose almost touching

  glaring at your eyes

  He makes you uncomfortable,

  he makes you restless,

  as you see through his eyes,

  his eyes of truth...

  But you cannot see

  you are blinded by faith

  you refuse to believe the truth at point blank.

  Words,

  defined to the imperfectness of world's delights.

  I

  Fluid, brightly dull, thousands of pictures spiral the mind

  sloshing down to no man’s meaning…

  Flushing on with mind’s consciousness

  all dust, blood, sweat, poetic

  II

  Seven hundred ninety nine worlds

  is what the red time holds,

  and each world for its words new or old

  and each for its picture own

  so mad mad to describe

  III

  I scratch away on upon the dark lines black

  with my dusty thoughts, I wrote with lack

  ink of censorship, I wrote with free ink

  and only unknown thoughts to lick

  But red’es mind’s fire burned

  and the lost memories, whirlpool emotions lured

  to the darkest corner of an unnamed jungle

  and peo
ple got sweet burns.

  IV

  Lump of words, down on throat,

  splashes on mind, hard and sore.

  No world these words create,

  slide back, blue and cold

  The rhythmical dance of poetry it may say,

  meanings of meanings it may lay,

  but the leaves of the fiery autumn,

  or the crisscrossing car's light blossom

  defined to the imperfectness of world's delights.

  V

  Words speak…

  I cry for you, speak.

  Just for me.

  Don’t be the verse of each sentence

  Echo the flaming peacock.

  Make the sense I don’t have

  Words speak

  I cry for you you you you you you

  VI

  Who to see the nightingale drowning

  under the depths of deep dark well..

  who to farewell...

  or to answer her distress call

  Who to see the nightingale's night pen echo

  the dark childish nags of phantom in her ears

  clutching the words so dear with her claws

  where to go, with the rag rock

  She is tried,

  wet with dust,

  her throat is cracking,

  no longer sings,

  the world's song...

  Who to see the world she so sweated created

  who to see the world she so sweetened salted

  who to see the world she so deliciously departed

  to whole the word world around...

  The shadows of her, canalising into the world

  that raw energy of anger,

  who to row with her