A crisp fabric colluding with the criminal chest, Sleeves covering to cushion the hammering wrists, A collar button precariously shields the taints of a thirsty throat, A belt so bodacious, upholding the bickering of the balls.
The eyes widened for accentuating the destructive fall, Flaunting the testes' tyranny yet the vestigial teats yearn the bosoms, Fists, always short of blood, perforating deeper in its peculiar performance, Wandering feet callously crushing the careful crafts.
Vexing in vain for the flooding sweats, amidst their naive condolences, Jugglery on wheels when blessed with a foot or two, a rat race on the itinerary and always eager to join the fleet, Breaking news for creating chaos, a formidable bread fed to the ethos, Building ridges of bricks for the eerily emptied homes !!
Men's Super-ego (Exemplified)
The fabric soon crumbles under the burdened heart, Sleeves brushing aside the tanned tiredness of tribulations, The collar button pinning the desired bruises, under a shade of sentimental sentience, Belt holding the reins of an uninitiated passion.
Eyes rummaging for a desolate call amidst the echoes, Vestigial chest buried in his birth, devoid of all the vehemence, Now frivolous fumes, the fist, clenching the hands in its vicinity, The feet adapted to the roleplay, amicably wearing the soul's sole.
The formidable weapon of love some ancient knife casted from meteorite of a noble warrior to whom I lost the war and surrendered.
Ships that sailed above the tempestuous ocean drowned and collapsed midway to my heart for I whispered love is evil to the merciless waves.
Cold blast of mellifluous relations into heartbreaks replayed in my mind, immuned my cravings, fear of the unknown lingered heavily in my bones, letting myself love someone involved inviting a real risk, voice of oracle chanted diabolic stories of others, cautioned me against the people perished in love who still chase shadows. Trust, the statue never gifted to anyone never been created either.
Until you redefined the geometric angles of love to me, I lack the phrases to define love, I can feel it in me I can see it in you but I fail to add adjectives to the feeling.
An uncharted territory I refuse to walk upon is now the casita under which everything seems meaningful. I hate love but I love you I criticize love but I praise you.
The fear of loosing myself shrudded in the process when I realized you carved a part of my soul over it's carnal shell I didn't knew existed afore.
the lacunae turning loquacious, is often a casuist's most dreaded curse;
is it a lengthened longevity of its delusions? or a percolating prudence of its perceptions! panache of a pensive penmanship? or an underlying and prosaic precocity!
ostentatiously oscillating, jaywalking at the cross roads with blindfolds; the brevity of conciliation is its niche, there's seldom any respite for the corrugated brain, churning only to get corrupted with a dubiousness;
but then again, when asked about the self, or the extent of its eudaemonia, it isn't anatomized, may be a prospicience, or may be a sadness, yet to be birthed out of a hindsight!
Wake up, you say as you shake my hair Look, you say while the morning sun falls flush on my face What, I say, is it that has lit a fire in your eyes; and your fingers are an arrow as I follow your silent trail to the skies and glimpse a rainbow come our way.
Name the stars and constellations, you say in a falsetto voice so I start speaking in a half trance "Sirius, Andromeda, Bellatrix, Regulus" and this time you shake your hair and say those are names of Harry Potter characters and I sigh and confess that those are the only celestial names I know.
And we go on talking, late into the night, word after word, one question after another outside the dew stained glass window the sky changes colour and the Earth's axis tilts once more and we continue to spar with words spilling secrets and laughing at jokes until we know each other as well as two people can ever hope to know.
How would I know, To describe the music I hear, As the blades of fan, Keep cutting through silence?
When the world goes to sleep, There's another world, That wakes.
I see nods, helpless faceless nods, Of countless fading heads, When I say the things, That I tell myself I shouldn't say.
Someone asked me yesterday, What do I hold under my skin? If I say storms, That would be too cliche an answer, For someone who skips mirrors. If I say words, I would be that poetry, That said the piercing truth, almost. Always 'almost'
So I say, nothing. And that explains best, The volcanoes that fall extinct, Before they could erupt.
As much as I hate wordsmiths, On such evenings, I would envy them too. For they could just always find words, To write of what kills them, With a smile. And let it kill them still.
A grief that died a dame, An aching sorrow crying implicitly, Under the massacres of smiling faces. A hurt orderly contained in, Well balanced attires, And dressed up faces.
Amidst all this stood a person of words, Feeling and selling, Selling and feeling.
There aren't enough people who read, But more than that, There aren't enough people, Who would ever know how to read.
The gaps, the periods, The between the lines. They are the sighs, of the unsaid, They are everything that goes unheard. Everything that was meant to be heard.
And I care for you, Is a condolence most easily said, Oh no, it's thrown at faces. It's thrown from places devoid of it, To the places that will remain bereft. We just like to say we care, To those who like to hear it.
And yelps are all I hear, When I see footsteps falling behind, In chirpy groups walking a lot faster, Than infantile words of honesty Learning to crawl. Meanwhile, people become shadows, Of groups and communities.
Frankly skid knees aren't unshared. They are just hidden well enough, Till the wound protrudes through perfection, And flawless smiles. There's a pus that trails, Along the familiarly shocked eyes.
I sometimes look at people, Wishing to know, If the weight of all the unsaid, Ever keeps them up at a night. Only to wake up to a morning, That asks, how well can you walk through hell?
"What would be the price we pay, If we said the words we meant?" And while I say this, More or less, I know, I have been a wordsmith, And I will be too, again.