The Journey

The sky was a battlefield of colours and your favourite is not what I seek,
I shall count to ten but you can hide in fifteen, 
You let a zillion pearls form on your face in the drizzling night when I drove our hearts over the water body,
I was circling around while you used one cross too many,
I dont want to find you yet, the truth is not what I seek,
so, I shall count to ten but you can hide in fifteen..

Words

Break me with your words into a million alphabetic heart beats,
And dont take your words back because i sleep on them now,
Some of them are uncomfortable but most of them have knitting needles on them that works fine as pillows as they help me scrape the senses out of my brains,
Chop me with your words into pieces that would resemble memories and ill join them back as this puzzle does not have an age limit on its box,
And the final picture would always look the same, no matter how much I want it to be different,
Punch me with your words into a pulp and we both know how we love fiction,
While our reality looks like pens and lighters,it always would get lost,
Love me with your words till I hope this actually happens,
Kiss me with your words till your lips forgot the latter,
Help your words to kill themselves, for like unprepared multiple choice answers,most of them are marked true,
Help me to forget your words before your words help me to forget you...

-
Shubit

A Clockwork Nothing

Clockwork-like lives, we all are cuckoo in our own special ways,
I ought to limit my characters to 140 to be trending to be trendy,
It makes me sleep tight when my likes feed the hungry,
With laws governing love,they shall trap our thoughts under more sections someday,
So,I told them my heart's of no use now,they made me believe I have OLX, I should just Bech-de,
Like a scrabble game without a board,our words are pointless,
We have conversations that candies crush,we're just a smart card in the metro rush,
Clockwork-like lives, we're all cuckoo in our own special ways,
We are the cigarettes and coffee between 9 to 5,
We are the sighs between bitten nails and being alive,
The minister's chair is like a seat in the car in that movie,Fear and loathing,
They kill our Hobbes to create new ones, just to say Calvins are boring,
Like abandoned airports,only our farewells are walking through security checks,
We have dream like horses,we search for people who would place their bets,
So lets create stories without bookmarks,
Lets create our own happy hours!
Clockwork-like lives, we're all cuckoo in our own special ways.

Oh well.....

Love,while the cards are still not shuffled and you're winning probabilities,
Expect,like half-shut doors and silent phones at 3AM,
Leave,while the night is still dark and the lonely bulb flickers in your mansion,
where the blankets are cold with words, where memories are held for ransom
You sit beneath that bulb rocking that chair and few other things,
with open arms and the butterfly effect in perfect sync,
And then love, while sketching an oasis over a mirage,
Expect, while hearts still resemble Rock-Paper-Scissors,
Leave, while insanity still figures out dreams on a collage.

Of madness...of love....

Madness is not a bad thing. Love is madness.
It cannot be justified wrong or right but can only be felt by one.
It's like witnessing a wonder of the world, you cannot criticize it for what it is or even rather for what it is not. You can only be overwhelmed by the fact that you're a part of it for now.
And then it's almost as if you want to get off a roller coaster, you just wont spoil the experience for yourself but for others who were a part of it as well.
Love ought to be madness, there's no reason for its existence if its not. After all, being in love is loving yourself, talking to yourself, doing things which you never thought you would do.
You just cannot love someone and define a limit in it.
It's a dried tear drop on piano keys, it's a keyhole with passion on the other side, it's a sin without a guilt and it's a beach without a sun but with stars.
Limiting love would be like counting the number of times you breath and trying to keep the number same everyday.

Death

I saw death today.
I saw how He lives,
Like the ocean embracing a ball of fire,
Like a heart taking what it gives,
Momentary, like the candles at your first birthday,
Solitary, like the time they parted away.
Like zillions of elevators with nowhere to go,
It was beautiful like a photograph in flames,
Disfigured lives in black and white,
Chess seemed to be one of his favorite games,
I saw Death today,
He told me how He lived.

(To be cont.)

Speak of...

Before this man is forgotten and his lies have become immortal,
Before he wakes up from a dream where he had lived,
Speak of his anger, of times when the soul clenched onto the fingernails and scars were deeper than birthmarks
while victories would fight defeats struggling to find their reasons to be,
Speak of his love, speak of balloons pumped with promises tied to a few autumn leaves,
And if you would hold his hand long enough, you might just be able to touch his heart dangling on the sleeves,
Speak of his tears, carving a path leading to conclusions and looking for shoulders to leave impressions on,
of  craters of pain that time failed to fill, of a time when the sand clock had come to a standstill.
Speak of the rights and the wrongs, speak of being guilty and free,
Tell them he was guilty when he fought his wars,
Tell them he loved not right but his wasn't supposed to be.... 


-Shubit
(Inspired by Carvens Lissaint - Tell them)

Pens

Pens shouldn't be named, they ought to be called by the first word you write with them.
It makes it more personal because until then you dont really "own the pen". Also, it makes you lose it a lot lesser too in context to the reason above.
But then the only flaw I could see in this thought would be 'how would you recognize your own then?'
I feel pens are like tooth-brushes, you certainly come to know when you're not using yours, by which I mean the one you have "bought" and been using for quite sometime now.
Stealing pens is almost like something you would do after seeing a lot of people around you looking up...you would look up too. It's something you would want to try, something like wanting to try what mannequins are wearing probably just to be exactly like them them.

Never Say Goodbye

One of my first self compositions with a phone mic as the recording device and four water clogged walls as the studio.

Of Mannequins and Love

It was raining cats and dogs...and love that day.
We proudly wore what mannequins were wearing through crowded days and deserted nights.
Under armpits and over smelly hair I got down from a train on a monotonous track to follow another
And like stars in nursery rhymes, everything beautiful would be juvenile
You were late at the overhead bridge but you still defined everything punctual to
the racing heart.
Hearts would be murdered and the elevator to my room would be the only eye-witness as it would blink zillions of times....letting us in...letting us out...
It took time but the toothbrush now shared its room with another one of its own as other little things too had company following our footsteps.
The seat belt at the co-driver seat now could finally make a move as its buckle clicked up with its love and defined our nights.
We mixed and hid memories inside an hourglass fearing and waiting for kingdom to come.
We departed when we realized that to change the sand...we had to break the clock.
Into glasses and between the mirrors of evil and the good
we stood apart waiting for someone to wear
what we are wearing in crowded days and deserted nights...