The biggest mystery of life,
That the future is unknown;
The hardest irony to digest,
Is that animated creature
Into which I’ve grown.
A million miles back
Into travel through time,
Lays my tilted, barren ‘home’;
All through dimensions of time and space,
I’m trying to seek my rightful place.
Then again, what is my right?
Do I know?
Am I human? Am I animal?
Or a hybrid of the two?
I’m a little bit of me
And some parts of you.
Look for your dark corner,
Find your own reasons for gloom;
If I’m headed towards nothingness,
You’re only striving for doom.
There are so many people,
People who claim to know,
What many can’t verify
And others would not show…
I collect my bits of disintegration
Attempt to create some sort of correlation
Question myself, on chances of reconciliation.
Upon no specific answer,
I retort to self-annihilation
I hear all that you have to say,
But I shall not guarantee registration…
How could you claim to ‘being human’,
When you slave away to de-humanization?!

The Myth of Humanity

Life is beautiful,
But the beauty went unseen
The civilization denied:
How civil it could’ve been..!
Diabolic desire defeated human pride,
Like a bright, empty mansion
Decorated on a wedding night,
Waiting in vain for a runaway bride.
All that is induced by ‘society’
Into fragile, haunted minds,
Ignites as fuel, a spreading fire,
Blazing on its way, things of kinds.
Like a coffin to a newborn,
Living is to life;
When no humans are left
in the myth of humanity:
So this is called ‘freedom’
by your questionable sanity…
The tears that you cry:
wasted salt in the end;
You forget who your enemy is,
the other forgets a friend!
Yet, what attempts to define your creation,
Makes a child, maybe, be a child
Is the seasoning of a sage, in deep meditation,
Or an artist, child-like in pure imagination.
While watching and listening to yet another wise clip from my all-time favorite stand-up guy, (Sir) George Carlin, I got reminded of this poem I had written some time in Feb 2011. I pulled it out of my earlier writings, from a blog I’d titled ‘De-Humanization’, and viola! Here it is, mixed and matched with his performance and also with some still images whose words so strongly relate to this lame joke of a concept of (deluded) ‘humanity’, getting more inhuman by the day.

The Vulnerable ‘I’ (Questions

I’ve been pondering for years,

And thought I was finding answers;

But today, I stand clueless again,

With a hope, tomorrow heals the pain,

 With a faint dream, that I may learn:

The essence of ‘LOVE’: that foolish concern.


The love that helps me feel my self,

That need not make me dismissively regress

From my own reflection, my faith,

And lessons perfected by distress.

Is there a love in this world, alive?

The one in my head, the one I COULD survive.


You make me question myself in my doubt,

You tell me things I wish to believe,

To my ears, usual words; but your trance

Wins in its effort to deceive,

This moment in time’s deepest sea:

Thus weary to flee, I stay and be.


I know not, what fears me the most,

That urges me to evaporate this emotion,

This enactment, a little alien to me;

Or is it, that I seek a face of devotion?

For in this world, ceased to me,

Seems that form, innocent and free!


I know not, why I stand so stubborn,

Or why I long for this, so much!

I could still choose to prefer instead,

Like each time, my moments of weakness;

Or does love really make me weak, as such?

In its craze, of cradling in nature’s clutch!


(Modified: 29-05-2012)

The Blank Page…

The blank page awaits me, to fill its emptiness with my thoughts. And I await something within me to urge me to write; and thus we are both companions in the waiting.

I catch random sound-waves hitting my eardrums from a distance, and realizations of the world around me hit my stream of thoughts. The sense of ‘self’ that I have been trying to make sense of for so long and shall forever keep trying, seems to dissolve each time; and then after a period of ambiguity, fortifies into a different solid form again.

There are more rules for radicals than there are for anyone else. The ‘non-conformists’ are the ones who actually believe in the feeling, doing and receiving that come along with the search for the truth; and that truth lays much hidden beyond the layers of clichés like realities of ‘society’, ‘religion’ (or more precisely, ‘religiously confused lot’), nationalistic ‘pride’, material ‘needs’ etc. etc.

The reason why I call them ‘cliches’ and term them ‘realities’ is the irony of the negligible presence of these two concepts themselves from the inverted (co(m)ma) words; i.e. There is no reality as such really in those inverted words!