Just lines

I found some things i had written as a kid... this is my last poem.

Just lines

Donot read this
Dont hear this
Dont memorize this

This is not a piece of art
but a pice of Timepass
I remember, I remeber - o ye
none of the usual starts
No metaphors
no similies
No personifications
Just a few imperfections
No rhyming words
and definately not about birds
No thou, thy, thine
This is not about lov
eneither about war
No inner hidden meaning
probably just a feeling

how i wish
you had not read this
you had not heard this
you had not memorized this

This is not a poem
I am not a poet

Faces

I seem to wonder where all this is leading to. And I seem to be doing this pretty often.

I am not anymore what I thought I was. I am not probably going to be what I thought I would be.

I usually look at people. I see everybody right in their eyes. I see their faces. I study every bit of it. And then I try reading what thought lies in their mind. It gives me hope.

Every face at any given point has a thought. Most of the times, what you read is a reflection of your own.

If the face belongs to an educated man, a hard working man, a man who knows what he has done and what he has to do. Then it seems to me that the thought at that moment in his mind is not really about that moment. It is either on the side of the past or on the side of the future. The thought always seems to be far away from the present moment.

If the face belongs to a beggar, a man who doesn’t have his legs, a man who hasn’t bathed for ages, a man who probably only ate once the previous day, the man who sits in the same dirty corner all the time with a piece of cloth lying on the floor and looking at every person passing by, trying to evoke some pity n generosity by just making an eye contact. This man seems to have a thought all the time only in the present.

I want my thoughts to be in the present. I look at all these unfortunate people and I wonder how they do it. What makes them just live for that moment? Why don’t they dream of a tomorrow or think of a yesterday? I sit and I try to learn the art which they seem to have mastered.

Many a times I see that he is happier than I am. That he is thankful for that one glance he could get from a passer by. For that one piece of bread he could buy with those few rupees he has managed to get. That he could sleep and could sleep well that night. Does he dream? And what would the dream be like?

And then I move on, looking at another face and wondering “why am I like this?”

A walk

I am walking.
It’s dark. I can see, but nothing seems to see me. I can see the darkness but can the darkness see me?
Where am I walking I ask? I can hear what I asked but does anybody else hear it?
Is there anybody with me? Am I with somebody? Nobody replies.
I am still walking.
Now I smell something. Am I smelt too?
I continue to walk.
No, I did not feel anything. Nothing felt me too.
I am walking and the darkness is walking with me.

The Birth

For long I have seen all my friends do this. They all religiously maintain a blog. I never could do that.

Today I had a sudden desire to have one of my own. To write something. To let something go.

Here I am like you and your friend and his friend….. A Blogger!