Gratitude

I have spent more than imaginable time to complain about the minute flaws in a system or organization at home and many other places. Perhaps a sliver from all the hours of my day would be too much to account for the moments I’ve taken to stop and be thankful for something.

We get carried away with all new things that come to us with passing days, and we forget express gratitude for the simplest beauties around us.

When we learn to feel grateful of the present and of the moment, when we learn to be thankful for what we possess and pleasant situations, we begin to curb desires, wants, hatred – the unnecessary and defilements that ruin tranquility of the mind – and in a way, we begin to heal.

Wherever you are and whenever it may be, look around and be thankful for everything you get, from a peaceful sleep and a wonderful family to the support you receive in building your dreams.

Exhale with a smile, you are fortunate and blessed.

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Where am I now?

The walk swallowed the energy that I had left from shedding all of my troubles into the water. I felt them float around me like thick flakes, and they followed the bubbles from my mouth. It was not that kind of day, when my muscles would still work against needle sharp aches and continue to hoot with the percussionist in my head.

Some of the percussions reroute the firing of synapses, yet I constantly ask myself of the faults that appear out of nowhere.

Now the band, that resides in the middle of my mind, hails this barbaric percussionist, solely because it is able to make me collapse at the sight of greater minds. That is when I find myself hammering my skull, and perhaps wait for it to crack. I know this player is afraid of crevices, so I decided to sit under the running of vehicles by the neighbourhood. I prayed to the intense solitariness that crawled under the walls of my flesh, that it should be done and cemented before I begin to shake from all of its experiments.

Fruit of Wonderment

Onto some road I imagined as I sat,

perhaps a little sunlight, more or less a dash every now and then,

there strolled a man; a stroll sounds too fancy as I gazed at him.

His shoulders had no strength to be the pillars for someone.

Corners of his eyes were decorated with wrinkles,

as old as he once loved the woollen jacket he wore,

when his darling grinned.

More of what I can recall is his voice, as it strained

and strived to wriggle past through the thorns

that emerged from inside his throat. Beautifully distressed,

by what I heard in the words as he sang.

Some sorrow, thicker than vines I pushed behind

to catch a glimpse of him on a stump.

His words? Oh, it was his reverie, but

I wondered what did I do to have the harrowing tunes

bequeathed to me. Love as a word from his chapped lips

stabbed my chest, where I believed I could hold the

feeling, good as new. Smile, as he sang the word,

broke my rib, or rummaged through my mind

tearing into the flesh to see if I knew, truly knew

what it meant.

I tried to buck the torture that called black clouds to hover

above me. Those knew too well into becoming an obstruction,

and dragged me away the very second I placed my finger

on the doorknob.

The man turned around, coerced a halved smile and murmured,

“It is after all what an aching soul sees.”

Adrift

Here today, I see no wind above the horizon,

That once had the will to fleet and stun all lives.

I am on my porch standing with my arms wide open,

To utmost nothingness but a faded sillage.

Urged to the weakness of my will to see a phantom,

That glided through cries and flattered its vanity.

I murmured not long before a beam pierced through,

To unravel a bend within the passage I nearly sunk into.

How an unspoken tale yearns to be heard,

By eyes that flipped through its pages recklessly,

But Oh! Crying out to the unsighted, would they hear

My words abounded with stillness?

Hanging onto unwoven threads of hope, is it true

That I would plummet to an endless descent?

Clenching my fists around an unattested spar,

Will I have my footprints marked again on home? 

My Tirade

I question myself on the night I pick up a pen,

“Where do you want to be?”

Among the clouds that carry the imprints of faces with anger, ecstasy, desolation that charred themselves before the very hour of exposure into a universe full of possibilities?

Or somewhere within yourself, a labyrinth without even a particle of light to guide you, and the walls whisper, “You are on your own”…

Or somewhere down that road where you failed to walk and fell into a puddle of deception with thistles sticking out of the surface to make you bleed the truth and make you leak of lies…

Or somewhere over the surface where you are standing at this very moment, but the soles of your shoes have killed the minuscule details that design a new mask for you…

Or somewhere in that isolated house of ruse where bloodied hands are glued on the walls of slight security but they were torn apart by the mob of eyes that shrieked all nights of purgatory and songs of cremation…

Or somewhere along the train track where the nuts and bolts have come loose after every train that goes by carrying threats with boxes of coal hearts and fractured teeth that tried to bite every frost that covered their hope and buried their voices between the gate and the blistering air…

Or somewhere in a graveyard where tombstones have every word inscribed that you have said to yourself through your pillow of uncertainty that perforated your mind to watch drops of despondency crawl out of the holes where you hide your regrets that were heavier than the gravity that held you down when you wanted to soar away…

And I question myself on the night I pick up a pen,

“Where do you want to be?”

Anomaly

I watched how you skulked along the gallery

Of my house, on a dreamless night,

With something in your hands wrapped in jet black,

Just the way your existence is.

 

How was I supposed to know that you,

You would disrupt my stream of serenity,

Or splinter the ground which swabs all walls,

All walls of fiendish activities.

 

You perforated my work of art

That carried the countless, fragile pieces of

What beats inside me, that still lives and drums,

But remained oblivious to your profound reality.

 

You hooked my chest to drag me away,

And drag more lives away, to forcefully sleep

On beds made of thistles, just to hear us shriek

And maybe surrender to your realm of affliction.

 

Nonetheless I crawled out, and every night

I reach the brink where the line of woe

Seems to vanish and venture a trip to help me return…

Still, you wrench me back to euthanize my hope.

Hush

They don’t care if you’re breathing,

Dare yourself to walk on the streets they’re guarding

Filled with corpses punctured with bullets of their pride.

They look up and command the skies to expire,

Or a droplet on their noses and they open fire;

From the crater in the sky come waves that imbibe,

And all that grows in their land is crushed, obliterated and gridlocked,

on a map that shows carcasses as trophies on their heads as they jay-walked;

Whips that made us bleed, they would flout and deride…