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Almost Unfelt

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Almost Unfelt

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sumit Goreja

Copyright © 2017 by Sumit Goreja

All rights reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the express written consent of Sumit Goreja.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She loves my poetry,

but she doesn’t know

that she is reading herself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First, let my lips pen

some words on your skin

then tell me if they are not

poetic enough to seduce your heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let me in

the way you invite

smoke into your lungs,

through your lips;

and I promise,

unlike your cigarette,

I will rather fix,

not damage the things.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She touched me like

I’m the last saddest poetry

in the world;

devouring every part,

running her lips

through each word,

turning my scars

into a piece of art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She dived her bare

emotions into my eyes,

and I pulled her deep

into my tears.

Both were exposed

to a feeling that

was left unfelt.

She fed me.

I felt her.

And we both

became one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Before you undress her

to quench your lust,

first make sure her heart

is high on your love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But whom do I complain,

for your sight left

my eyes mesmerized

without my consent;

now they demand

nothing but

you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wonder how many stars

the sky had to shoot

before you said yes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You are becoming 
my ocean of secrets,
I like its silence 
but afraid of its depths.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Drunk and Sober

are the only times

when the gap

between my fingers

craves to be filled

with your intimacy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I want my tattoo 
with your ashes 

in the ink,
so I can feel you
even after you
are gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dig a grave 
in your heart,
my soul demands 
to breathe in you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My skin demands 
your bruises to be

explained in a 
seductive language.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thousand miles 
away you are
but not distant 
from my memories.
Zillion years might 
have passed
but you are still here 
living in my heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Too bad you can’t

drown my emotions

for they know how to swim.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I want her to kiss

the wounds out of

my mouth until they heal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If love hasn’t

unearthed your soul,

you haven’t experienced love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She is a storm I happily once embraced,

now ‘am chaotically dancing

in her whirlwind

trying to shun a step of death.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her fury prods my mind into

stripping my thoughts,

then ‘am blamed for leaving

her feelings undressed

and turned on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For she demanded

to sense heaven,

I let my lips take refuge

below her earlobe

until her upper eyelids

met the lower.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She leaps over the

unprotected wall of my heart,

shrouds my senses in her

indelibly seductive words,

tactfully colonizes my beats,

and turns me into her slave.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So be that last hope,

the visible shore

that can be seen with

lost eyes of mine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When she halted

rummaging through

her shuffled thoughts

to find her better half,

that’s when my vagabond

heart found a home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Break my bones
for it has no blood to shed.
But break not my heart
for it has no bones to repair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Because sometimes
you have to let your eyes

wet your cheeks 
before your lips 
make your heart smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I found her 
after being lost
when she was 
lost in someone else.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Last night my body

overdosed on her feelings,
by the morning,

necessity-of-happiness

was the reaction

she turned out to be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You can’t even write two lines,” she says.

And when I write three,

she begs to understand the depth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have become

a victim of your disease,

for I too can’t sleep

even if I read.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fuck thousands of miles between us.

I like how you turn me on

even with such distance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She has tangled her simplicity

in the web of chaos;

now awaiting to be disembroiled

with the help of hope

that long before was put to grave

by her senseless thoughts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Curves might quench your drool

but loyalty will nurture your soul.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, how she often enjoyed being a sadist;

touched him in the places and got high,

then gave him blue balls and left him dry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chained to her wit,

my sapiosexual demon brushes

even her testimonial touch off.

See I not how else can she calm

the rush of my blood than in her writings,

for I feel so steamy by

how she assembles the words.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes. I envy the walls

of your room

for they hear

your silence

more than

my ears do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She looks so beautiful even

in her fifty shades of sadness,

it makes even my poems

stay loyal beyond her grave.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His unconscious

was a tryst where

often she would,

like a vortex,

appear unheralded,

fumigate his dry life

and give him not less

than a wet reason

to dream more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She moans all day

and the one I pay

only attention to

is when it whispers

my name.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You know why I still put up with you

even after sensing you bitter and strong

because you open my eyes to reality

just like my morning coffee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My pen has eloped

with her imagination,

now all I hope is

they come up

with a cute little poem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When her incisors took

a refuge beneath my earlobe,

her unruly nails wandered down my spine

torturing my conscious into blurting,

something her ears longed

to take pleasure in:

my confessions of love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I sympathise with myself

for being too poetic,

for now she demands

not my touch

to get turned on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Between the vacillation of

giving his breath a hiatus or

letting his guilt usurp his life,

she walked in like a hurricane,

reigned his destiny,

laved all his sins away

and gave him a wild reason

to breathe ‘yes’ in the world of ‘no’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Because every kiss of yours

tells me a different story

with a touch I can’t handle,

you leave me wanting you more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And when she was striping

herself right before me,

it was as if my eyes were

opening to a new genre of poetry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You don’t even need to feel

my love to melt your heart,

just read my poetry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Feigning ‘am okay

without the pure taste of

your tongue on my skin

makes me insane.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She wants you to be poetic

after you have made love to her,

not before so you can get laid, you dog!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Loneliness was driving her crazy,

so she began talking to the echoes

of her own voice to feel sane.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of course the silence between us

gave a birth to a brief moment of shyness,

but if we had any hopes of assaulting

each other erotically, it was only then.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And her simple touch

stampeded my heart beats

while blood clove a path through

the valleys of my stomach

and reached the place that

awakened my irresistible need for her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And his gift arrived bearing

their seductive memories

to light up her dark path of loneliness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When you find someone

whose IQ is better than your face,

you must hold onto that person

like a son of a bitch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t want to be

the sun in the morning

that ruins your sleep,

but its light that keeps

you warm when it’s cold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t want you to sniff her perfume

and assault yourself in the washroom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You seem to have rare taste,

let’s mate our words and see

what poetry they breed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When you die,

I want to get high on your ashes

and never feel sober again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ain’t sure what these collywobbles

about you are in my stomach,

but I’m loving it like a masochist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And her skin is like

an untouched paper,

not even looked upon;

demanding my lips

to write an untold story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And when the shadow

of her muffled words

shrieked louder than her,

that’s when he knew

she has an appetite for him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her lips taste like a wrecked wave

that needs a kiss to reach the shore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clouds were burnt to ashes,

sky was bruised to death,

stars were tortured to suffocation,

and night’s silence was

disturbed to numbness.

World was on a verge to collapse,

and there we were: disrobing,

showing each other our naked minds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From eyes to thighs,

every moment was

so blissfully quivering

that my wounds were

left no more in a doubt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was in love with

booze until I met you,

and now I drink coffee

so I can keep my fingers

wide awake and stay

high talking to you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, I do relish your

cerebral conversation,

but you know how

sometimes it’s careened

down an imbecilic path

that leads towards your shopping…

 

I begin to miss your absence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finding her is like witnessing

that happiness when in childhood

our hands stumbled upon ten bucks

in the jeans that were long forgotten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I let her in,

her lips autographed

a contract on my skin

for making no attempt

to tame my emotions;

now they are caged in

her heart for not penning

the consequences if breached.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And I would bury myself

amid the lost mountains

where none can intrude.

For I only long to breathe

the echoes of your love,

and smother my emotions

for unforgivable sin I did.

I’ll disrobe my skin

to greet the welts

that would speak of penance.

 

Hundred or a thousand years,

I’d dangle my breath

in the noose of your scent

for my soul to meditate

your eternal presence,

and reincarnate again

for guilt that can only

be buried with the

touch of your tender lips.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And my heart demanded

to feel sorry for her,

for her mind dwelled upon

the delusional shadow

that my pen always danced,

and danced only for her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But first, your feet have

to taste demons in me

to walk with my sanest part.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But darling, first make sure

your words have tasted the meaning

of selflessness before they demand

my pen to write our future story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a disaster,

how once we ineffably relished

bruising ourselves,

and now, not even a wish of falling star

can chime our thoughts on anything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I poured my emotions

down her throat in

a quest for home,

but can one really find a

home in the sea of vagabonds?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You misunderstood my chaos

and now you are lost in my simplicity.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We feel more than some animals

maybe that’s the problem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Butterflies last only for a week,

give my stomach something

that breathes longer than my grave.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She cocooned his

emotions in her wings

while her words

set his soul on fire.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Because happiness is not enough,

we need pain to feel good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Befriend yourself 
with loneliness 
neither will you 
feel lonely 
nor will you 
miss any of 
your friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m sorry

your shadow

reeks so loudly

of imperfections

and flaws that

I can’t hear what

you are saying.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The only bitter thing

my senses find sweet is

black sugarless coffee,

not your soul.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No darling,

even my dog

can assemble

the words;

you can’t call it

your poetry

when I’m your

imagination.

 

Her face imprisons my eyes

but her IQ sets them free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You say my thoughts stink.

How can they not

when you are the one

lingering in my head

begging to be read

like a cheap book?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Your broken promises

seem to be rhyming

in my mind with the lyrics

that were written for a cuckold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vengeance begets fire,

and ‘am getting addicted to incense

of the flames I have set you on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Drunken thoughts lurched forward

to rekindle the memories when

wine was sipped from your lips

and bed sheet was left stained.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Memories are the perfect

meals to eat when heart is asleep

and mind is too conscious to digest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m only yours,” she said.

 

He kissed her until she smothered.

 

“Honey, I’m a poet. I know when people

camouflage their words,” he replied.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sorry, it was hard to undress the truth

but you had to be revealed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t interact merely because I care,

and I want not you to witness your heart

shatter into a million pieces just because

you believe in love and I do not.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seek no love

for it will bring no good

but water the seed of love

for it shall bring no hate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And in the end,

it matters not how

cruelly it breaks us,

we will always end up

yearning for a bit more.

That’s the crazy thing about love:

the cause of disease itself is a cure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh no,

I need to be born drunk

to fall for someone

other than myself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life will always be a labyrinth,

and you will always find yourself lost

just when you think you have

found an exit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stoically I stand on the shore of death,

waiting for a wave to breathe me,

flashbacks fraught with difficult pleasures

nudge my thoughts from being inhaled,

reminded I am of the ones

I need to breathe a little more for,

and that, life is an unfathomable metaphor

that no human can decipher.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From the ashes I breathed buoyancy.

Witnessed hopes arise

after long dormancy.

Sensed high spirits

resuscitate itself from death.

Felt success basking in newfound life.

Once again, dust I taste.

Life is back to the ashes,

staring at me like a blank page.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For my bottle of wine craved 
to taste oxygen, so I let it taste me.
Now it feels intoxicated and I, so empty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Drink I often to watch my conscious sleep.

For it takes me up in the sky,

far from the dramatic people on earth.

It shackles my guilt from

wandering on the roads of nostalgia

and rescues my cheeks from

drowning in the river of tears.

For it helps to watch my eyes

witness sufferings fade,

and that, to cremate the self-annihilator

residing deep in my veins.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes there is nothing

as peaceful as cooping yourself up

in the room with some silent

rhythm and heavy booze.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As he waited with alacrity

in the witness stand

for life to gavel his breath

to exoneration or demise,

mustered he the moxie

to embrace whatever unforeseen;

for mattered what

is the urgency of the verdict

but not the verdict,

for his hope was exhausted

long before he was put on trial.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sit down next

to your past life

and see if you can

walk with it in the future.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I want you to pull me

out of delusion;

I want you to give me a kiss

that animates my grave,” said I to life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Relish the glory while

my spirits are demised

for like a phoenix I’m

rising from my ashes

to prove my pen is

invincibly wittier

than your brain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I like demotivators.

They push me to slap them

without touching their face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s difficult to swim against the tides,

but if you manage to do it,

then you may find a shore

that no one has ever seen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wonder why people ruin

their life by chasing perfection

when it is already such a beautiful mess.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is as if somewhere

we all unconsciously like

being masochistic,

feel no pleasure until

we surrender our little

heads to chaotic thoughts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why fuss over failure

when successful people

too die eventually, anyway?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Words on your tongue

are a brain of your mouth;

everyone possesses,

but only few know

how and where to

make its best use

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Many learn the art of breathing happiness only when they face their last breath and are hit by the storm of flashbacks that are poured through the funnel of joy and realise that the days laden with sadness were actually the days they whined about the problems than dealing with them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m so high on inspiration

even reality is afraid

to open its door for me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He who doubts his words

never will he relish

the prison of success.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nudged she my euphoric words

on the edge of numbness,

trampled my hope under

her feet for it to die,

shoved my confidence hard

for it to give in,

and clobbered my strength

to fall upon its knees

for it to not stand up.

But what my LIFE

couldn’t wrung out

is my SPIRIT

that stands over and again

like a son of a bitch to face her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Treat me the way you treat your karma,

Because ‘am sure that is exactly

how you want me to treat you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Underneath the skies of peace,

eyes only discover war.

On the bosomy lustful earth,

whispers contort with groans.

Amidst the temptingly epicurean trees,

fruits reflect the shadow of ego.

Into the water of holy ocean,

fish quest for the roars of silence.

Deep into the beatific wilds,

animals long to masticate succulent preys.

Up in the air of free will,

birds flutter down smothered.

In an almost predictably short life,

we volitionally choose to live crestfallen.

In a heavenly place called earth,

mankind seeks for paradise.

 

 

 

 

Ghoul’s Enlightenment

 

Lusty palpitations seek ways

to capture your unshared attention,

and concede fiendish,

but ruefully honest thoughts, and

to placate heart before it demands

to take pleasure in grave.

 

But a certain apathy of yours

resuscitates an unfamiliar demon,

residing lavishly against my desire

deep in my veins,

feeding me gluttonously the rage,

for me to muster nerve

to become him: a ghoul;

for me to pierce your heart in my mind,

and quench lusty palpitations

by witnessing blood

seep out of your pierced heart.

 

But no more matters it now,

for I set the ghoul’s feet on a pilgrimage,

and that, those satanic feelings are now enlightened.

The Apocalypse

 

And the pain itself would capitulate

feeling the bereavement of dead hearts,

Clouds would plummet upon earth

to wash the bones laden with blood.

The greed for love would

vanish the lust to win the war,

conscience would suddenly

shine like a twinkling star,

and eyes would shriek the tears of guilt.

Absence of ego would ignite

the flame of sinful memories,

and mouths full of laughter

would moan for mercy,

but too late then it

would be to beseech.

Every soul would be wrung

to merciless death,

and no god would pay heed

to the sufferers’ needs on his day,

and the day would be known as

‘The Apocalypse.’

 

The Call of Karma

 

World around you is dooming

You see my spirits aloft

Your eyes avert for a shoulder to count on

What you get?

Me instead:

A smile basking in a

sadistic notion of people’s agony,

a true betrayal of satanic angel

born in hell is what you face.

In your hour of need

you are heard not from your

loyal god you placed

your faith upon all your life.

You are hanged by hair instead

above the cauldron.

You hear each pore

in your body beseeching for mercy,

but now you find yourself

abandoned by your sole god.

 

Dangling like pendulum

above the cauldron

suddenly ticks your head

to face karma.

You watch your life slowly fade

brutally in pain as you come closer to fire.

You look into my eyes again

to look for a little human character

behind my sadistic smile.

In vain, you call the name

of god again for rescue.

My sadistic smile turns

into chaotic laughter

and you realize ‘am the god

of this place called hell,

and you are here by the choice

of your own god

for you to burn into ashes,

for you to pay for your sins.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crawl back to the womb days

to see if really you were

this greedy and egoistic.

 

If you were not,

give then a two-minute silence

to the person who never made it

outside the mother’s world

as the same living being.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our thoughts are nothing

but a path of life that moves

only in the direction we think.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And little by little we all die

but we forget to live a little

as days pass by.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And when forced again we are

by a spark of conscience to

relearn the meaning of life,

too intoxicated we become by then

to first bask even in the glory of

learning the art of unlearning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No doubt ignorance is bliss

but having knowledge

and dealing with it wisely

is Buddha.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

While you are awake, live.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A former copywriter, journalist and author of the book called The Essence of Rue, everything Sumit Goreja is today is because of his heuristic learning. He holds a degree in English literature and is a voracious reader; expressing his thoughts through words has always been his passion. From his experiences and achievements, he firmly believes that fancy degrees play no role in an accomplishment of one’s goal as far as there is a strong desire, passion and will to achieve it.

 

You can reach Sumit Goreja at [email protected]

 

 


Almost Unfelt

  • Author: Sumit Goreja
  • Published: 2017-06-27 10:35:13
  • Words: 3409
Almost Unfelt Almost Unfelt