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...

Door se Dekh - Another Self Comp.

One of the cheesiest surely! :)

The clouds said thunder, the night said rain,
She asked for a rainbow across the lightning,
The nature said gravitation, the self said fall,
And when the dawn proved us as guilty,
An evil you, an evil me....
The days were wonder, the nights were pains,
The lies were volcanoes and the dance was for the rains,
I asked for confessions while they seeked for none,
And the memories bled,sometimes more..sometimes some,
We lived an Arabian night, th magic was ours,
We lit a lamp just to make sure the time was still in hours,
We gathered around mirrors to see,
An evil you, an evil me...

I walked around a town, where you wouldn't know if you were real,
I saw an old man confirming the same,
He would challenge your past and prove you guilty,
An old man confirming the same,
You would see the biggest malls.

And a dragon in the amusement parks,
You would hear screams but not a fire,
You would be an aquarium in their sharks,
The bird flew over that town,spying on disbelief,
He put her in a cage of lies,
He believed in flying peacocks and their mischief,
The same confirmed by the wise,
I walked around a town, where you wouldn't know if you were real,
I saw an old man confirming the same,
He would challenge your past and prove you guilty,
An old man confirming the same...

Sadness

Sad is not the smile but the daggers behind it,
Not the death of a you but the soul of the same,
Sad are not the stories but the actors behind it,
Not the songs so true but the words said in vain,
The reason and not the lie, a you..but what's in a name,
A whisper and not a sigh, the dice and not the game...

She and Oscar Wilde

You are not punished for your sins,you are punished by them, she quoted as her departing footsteps gently faded away into another night of starry lies and into another lunar love.
And I was the dice while you were the chance,
Because if adam had charm, eve would have danced,
You and me are one too many for a duet,
you would knit memories into emotions and then snip it,
Then you would smile a tear and I thought I was the poet,
And now curtains is to long brown hair what the keyhole is to those eyes,
Present in those calender pages,your presence is no surprise,
Farewell to the favorites while silence laughs at the door,
Your memories live and stink where my words don't no more...

Untitled

A severed head signifies gore,without a reason sometimes,

If its an artifact,it becomes a religious symbol in no time,

Our paths are relative,or so we sometimes want them to be,

So when we are at the crossroads,we know in time,theres another one to see,

You would bleed a vessel which wont need to sails to sail,

And you would shed a tear,and it would fail to care,

A man on the train shakes his head too often,unsatisfied it would seem,

One would write senseless on patterns,deciding one's life to be,

His red eyes speak of toxic waste,exponentially seeking chastity,

He would stretch too far sometimes,show us using a coat hangar can be heresy,

We ran across such thoughts once,twice theyve shown to one,

thrice we have met them,acted upon them...none

Untitled

Underneath the rainbows of lies and mistakes,

and a wind of love that was not,

the hour hand that was just a little too late,

sands of time showed how they fought,

In our blues we met,

bringing guilt to the light,

Hearts broken and wet,

sins to our own delight,

Afraid of our own touch,

scarred mirrors or was it the faces,

Hands,we did clutched,

like joining mazes to make places,

your farewell to a memory was not over,

mine just struggled to be,

The present knows me,Past was to know her,

while the good and the bad played hide and seek,

We built a house of cards,

leaving the joker behind,

the joke soon caught us off guard,

and the queen threw the king over the line,

Dawned upon by the truth,

if truth was the sunlight,

clouds were us,we dared we could,

Monsoon was just a metaphor over our eyes,

Now we shall part,my clandestine,

a part of us was always apart,

played our parts,scripted by the divine,

ends to ends,ends to my start,

And if we should meet again at a time in space,

How shall I greet thee ?

with that rainbow of lies and mistakes,

another guilt,another secret,another you and me

Spoken Word-1

I travelled your green eyes once,I was sitting on a huge pink bow which never would never bend how much and how badly I wanted it to,
And one day it did, you smiled and I received a flattering reception from those smoother than silk black curtains engulfing a pair of shy emeralds.
I remember how much I loved to sink in the sea-green pond and when you slept,
how I wondered if a mirror is what I would see when there will be light again.
For I knew and believed you wouldn't draw those black curtains forever.
I once got washed down to the pink bow,maybe because I splashed in too much.
For I remember how salty was it to be sweet.
Lot of time has passed by now since Ive lived next to these red vessels and valves.
There is always a rush here, sometimes I try to find the person in this maze of your
shattered pieces of crimson plated glass but he always seem to 'beat' me at it.
Youve always been ruthless to my new residence in you, sometimes causing rain on it,
and then sometimes breaking its windows.
and so it happened, after years of sailing through glittering translucent red liquid
forming rainbows on your skin and those adventurous trips to pick shards of emeralds
the 'thud' monotonicity at my home ceased to exist,the rush stopped,vessels were anchored,
And I swam my way to the green pair of stones where the curtains had closed.

Untitled

Theres always a thin line to cross, and sometimes we like to criss the cross,
to draw a streak and to win the game which was never meant to be played,
How else do you think we were always a head or a tail in every toss,
and how do you think we never called Him the first of the wonders,a non man-made,
The line diminishes and the illusion is faith,faith is the line and the reality is late,
for you would know the way I chalk a white across the dead,
that the memories are now just few unconcerned flower beds,
I do believe in the soul and that soul never dies,
It lives after you but where was it all this while,
The answer is you left the soul always at the line that was,
that thin line,that line when we dared to criss the cross....

Malice Aforethought

Entered the castle of bloody bliss,Darkness precious for my biz,
A sharpened list from a blacksmith wiz,
Requiem for a lullaby before the death's kiss,
Moon shone on the water drops on the grass,
Ending the black like a goth's last,
Blood clots on my past,the dead of the night past,
Thriving for divnity,not for class,
Golden bolts on teak brown,looked like flowers on a wedding gown,
then had the handle on some extra pounds,
The door didnt make a sound,an owl's hoot began to drown,
high on fine weed and its a long way "down",
Refer my profit as a thing so attach no feeling,
as shadows creeps on the crimson ceiling,
To uproot it lik a bad seedling,closed curtains and a lamp for reading,
It lay on satin sheets,a damp red velvet symbolising its deeds,
With a new meaning to seek,I slowly took out one of my means,
Somewhere the clock struck three,while my thirst overpowered me,
Soemhow it came in vain to me, as I spotted the neck's vein to be,
Sliced! Now my palm reads blood,
And the crave passes out like a dud,
The door groaned this time and the gates creaked,as it lay there limp and weak,
I saw under the brilliant light of a thunder that it was me,I saw a dream speak...

-The Assassin