Tag Archives: truth

Honest.

In the moment of truth
The first spike is fear
Naked, pale and hot
Shrieking inside the chest
Your eyes are gleaming…
With conviction.
Soft, the hand that grazed
Across my skin, melts into
A black song-bird flying
Through the air –
Stop.
Please, I can explain.
Your eyes are vehement now
Brown globules of shining
Simmering heat.
Song-bird returns to
It’s nest. The next spike
Is red confusion –
A hasty prediction of
Consequences
The pain I will cause you
In the telling and the denial.
A shard through the mind,
A shard through my chest
I wonder, which, but
I stare at you, hold my head
In my hands –
A tear drop, then another,
Then another, you think
You’ve hurt me –
Rush to my side with arms wide open
Whispering apologies, holding me.

I wish you had,
Hurt me.

Phase I

Hello.

If you ask me really frankly, I knew this was a bad idea from the start. It’s funny how things work and things come to mean things and then the things that mean, start meaning different things to you. It’s like someone’s rigged you up with an analyzer that doesn’t wish to stay static, you want to make more of everything, find the connections and connect everything you can. Then you’ll associate things in that connection with each other and say, “Hey, these belong here”, then, when you see them in another arrangement, you realise that their use can be alternative too, and form more and more connections, linking everything to everything, that makes sense to you. You will see these things repeatedly in your life-time, sitting comfortably right where you placed them in your head, and you’ll be like “Yes, I got everything correct.”

Then, BAM, you see something different. A bizarre connection between the things that sat comfortably, so bizarre, that it doesn’t make sense at all. Your mind freezes.

All I’m saying is, accept the new connection. Integrate it. Don’t fight it. Take it in.

Bye.

P.S : I have no idea what the bad idea was.

Introduction

Familiarity lies in re-iteration. If I believe in the reality I do, it is so because certain large aspects of it remain unchanged. Yet, if I was sensitive enough to look at the minor fluctuations that take place second to second, and convince myself that the reality I am in, is different from that in which I was a second ago, I wouldn’t believe in a single reality.

Imagine a slide show with slides shifting per second, each slide having a different picture. The difference is difficult to spot, minor as it is, but it is there. Is this slideshow really your world? Or is it the next? Or the next? Or the next….?

Are we really familiar with our reality, or do we just judge the whole on the familiarities?

Sense.

So, I’m writing this
And you’ll be reading this poem
Consisting of words arranged
In such an order that they make sense
To you. As you keep reading, you realise
The clock keeps ticking, and then you
Realise that I’ve stolen away some precious
Seconds from you, I bet you’re
Thanking your stars that not all poems
Are like this one, leaving you, where you
Were, when you started reading this.
Do you stop?
No, something tells you to go on
Am I about to unveil something bigger?
Something that will haunt you relentlessly?
A fancy that shall consume your time further,
On perhaps and then be forgotten, like an
Echo of something much spectacular?
A truth that shall answer your questions.
Come with me,
I shall lead you into the labyrinth
Of your own musings and fears
Of your thoughts that make you feel
Lost, in the darker side of nonsense
Making sense of these listless lines
Creating your own understanding.

Creation

I wish I was there,
When the earth was ravaged by nature’s fury,
As blood rained from the darkened skies
A manifestation of the abyss of Tartarus,
As the wild winds blew and the earth was torn,
Apart by this horror, reminiscent of chaos,
A tidal wave of destruction, that left but nought.

But then in this desert, completely barren and devoid
There bloomed a flower, so luscious, so beautiful
Temptress of the senses, so vivid, so powerful
Untarnished by mortal manipulation, I wish
I could see that flower, and remember her forever,
For she was the most precious of God’s prismatic creations,
The faithful belief, the bringer of Light,
Reminisce her forever, for her name was Truth.

The Myth : Truth

I am skirting on the surface of this black ocean,

Looking at the green moon, spilling its flouroscence

Into the murky waters of this abyss through which I swim.

A distant lighthouse shines its azure glimmer and switches,

Flickering from dawn to dusk.

 

This world is yours as much as it is mine

The pieces of the puzzle are still the same,

A new law has been decreed, that perception

Will be different for each human being,

And thus my moon may be lime green,

But I presume yours might be a sinful red.

 

We see the same things and call it the truth,

Mutually agree that the world is what it is,

What if things are not the way they seem?

Perhaps, the oceans are really black,

We see them as blue and thus we decree

Yes, the oceans be blue.

 

I wonder now,

Truth for you, is not truth for me

For my cat, perhaps the truth is pink

Its world laced in monochrome,

Where all creatures are really just,

Well moulded pieces of chewing gum.

 

The only truth I see, lies in death,

That we all have to die one day

Perhaps, that is the singular beauty

Of the end of our world,

That though it is not what we think it is

And it can be much more, than what we think

It can be,

The end is the same if you breathe in the

The purple haze,

Yes, that is the only truth.

Masks

I hope you will forgive me,

I do not know who you are

Or where you come from,

Yet here I am

Forced to wish you a good good night

And no sir, I will not.

 

I met you at this social gathering

I wondered at the masks we wear,

Laughing for the sake of laughing,

Plastic smiles that seem to peel

Like dry crust from the skin,

And the scar opens to reveal

The evil sneer within.

 

A mask for every mask

A smile for every grimace

A laugh for every expression of pure hatred.

Yet we are taught of truth

And then there are manners.

 

I would rather not hide my true feelings for you, sir.

I do not give a damn about you

 

Then why should I wish you a good good night?

And contort my face into another mask

And depict passions of little difference?

If manners maketh a man,

Then I would rather be beast.

 

Set me free

Atleast I will be true

Like Prufrock, I see faces

Faces murdered and created

Every single day of the week

And I will laugh at all you weaklings,

Ripping my mask to shreds.