The Liars Called Poets

 You mourn of a dying democracy

In your borrowed words and acquired poetry

To some cheap claps and gasping hypocrisies

You think you have made a difference

You believe your three minutes of poetry is the ointment

This corrupt cosmos of rotten flesh and buried dreams needed to heal

Your soul touches your penis of an intellect

As your fragile ego masturbates into a commode of mediocrity

Wallowing in your made up pride

You gleam in shallow sweats of an assumed poetic genius

And as you walk back to the comfort of the four walls you call home

And as you light a cigarette sighing a breath of relief as if you've moved mountains

And as you pat yourself to sleep in the content smile of an imaginary win

Democracy dies a little more in the very oxygen you breathe

While you sell your poetry in the name of revolution 

Capitalism looks right back at you, and says, "Bitch please"

You care about democracy only when it earns you the label of a rebel

Revolution doesn't start or end with your poetry

You talk about politics and philosophies and transforming the world

Change doesn't begin in the comfort of inexpensive internet and affordable single malts

The truth is, you're just another privileged cunt

Who hides their privileges beneath a make-belief victim card

An utter piece of shit who cares for democracy as much as for dogshit

Whose faiths and beliefs are ingrained not in their blood but in their conveniences

And if, even for a brief moment, the tables were turned

You wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger on democracy

While you pee on the very poetry you once wrote and called revolution

Because, who needs poetry when they have power?

The Dreamers

The ones who couldn’t dare to chase their dreams

The ones who could’t dare to risk their very existence

The ones who couldn’t dare to survive the falls

The ones who couldn’t dare to live the failures

The ones who couldn’t dare to think a life beyond

Selling their souls on weekdays for paychecks

Drowning the sorrows of sold souls in inexpensive liquor on weekends

The ones who couldn’t dare to leap out of the loop

They’ll never know what it feels like, to let go

Surrender to the idea of a dream 

Like it was the inevitable, the only, the obvious

The ones who sought comfort in compromises because they were too scared to desire their dreams

Will, but survive

Living life comes at a price, a rather expensive one

I'm Scared Of Days But I'm Scared Of Nights More

I'm scared of days

But I'm scared of nights more

When the lights are dimmed out and the hustles of the citylife have retired for the day

I lie wide awake, my tightly shut eyelids trying hard to convince me to fall asleep

While the insides of my very existence lie wide awake

Staring into the abyss of the darkness of my four walls

Negotiating for regrets to be forgiven as experiences

While wondering, in the depths of it's messed up flesh

When do you run out of second chances? 

When do you know you've had enough?

When do you say to yourself, "this is it"?

Do you keep piling onto the corpses of your expectations until the day you pile on as a corpse, dead from existing?

Or do you let go of it all, because you've bled a whole lot, and can't afford more dying expectations?

Where do you draw the line, which one's fair?

Once you've lived enough, you've died enough

Do you live enough till you cease to exist? 

Or, do you live enough till you choose to exist?

Of Existences

En route to collecting memories

The desire to make them is lost

To wake up to a great morning

The longing for a good night is numbed

In search of a better life

The urge to live, lies buried and forgotten

Caustic Canvas

Crayon wings scribbled on concrete walls

Lush green above, dead cobbles beneath

Life stood still at an odd crossroad

Set in motion, yet frozen in time

The Beginning of The End

 If death wasn't an obvious

Would life still be as precious? 

If endings weren't an obvious

Would beginnings still be as ambitious?

Not a Love Story

She sought home in the world; he weaved worlds in a home

Time differences end a lot many affairs; perceptual differences could never let their's begin