Words, everlasting words..

Running between prose and poetry has always taken the best of me, Quite often, it's the entire stream-of-consciousness thing that saves me anytime. You just tend to write and keep on writing until the mind starts putting out brain aneurysms as signals for you to give it a rest. Unintelligible talk is what forms the order, most of the days. And by the time you take stock of what has happened, you will already have rambled on for paragraphs worth of shit that can be pardoned only because the government hasn't yet begun penalising the blogger clan for wasteful use of vowels and consonants!

As you know, wasteful usage of words goes well with wasteful downpour of coffee, tea and the likes. Three paragraphs down, what you're left with is a bloated belly and maybe an article/blog. A trick out of this is 'randomness'. Yes,randomness. Especially, when you try using one unique word again and again to heighten the impact. Randomness.

Hank Moody, from 'Californication', would always say, "Blogging is the death of creative writing". Considering this is the current 'content consumption' trend, I would love to see textbooks in the size of tweets - or some other text gauging bracket that might trounce 'tweets' in the near future.

P.S. Knowledge is banal. Application,on the other hand, is key.Apparently.

Obliterate

I choose to be indifferent to this emerging landscape
I try to siphon off images from my mind, but thoughts just don’t escape
On my haunches, I stand up now and walk out of this realm of beliefs
Several autumns have gone by and yet you seem to be painted on the leaves

Quite often, a hallucination helps me see the real world
Existence is bliss in a life into which I haven’t been hurled
I wish to spend some more time in utopia for years-a few
‘Cause upon my port of destination lies a wakening spirit of you

There is a road which walks me towards the trivialities of life
Every minute’s a new incarnation for the barren mind
I fight the urge to look over my shoulder or just around
Am I alone in a crowd with just a single face to surround?

A sadistic feeling that makes you revel in your own pain
Every poked needle that bears a spout of disdain
All my laurels and treasures that seem to fall away like dominoes
Memories, too, should have oozed out from my punctured veins

Limbo is my living expedition, as I wait for a change of seasons
For every pillion rider’s thumb, let there be a biker without a reason
And someday, when those faces in a crowd turn familiar,
Look away from the clear skies; it is summer.