I am jack's tormented heart

Longings are such a curse. Remembering eyes and hair. And weird pretty looks. Remembering touches. Cheeks smeared with tears Because crying is realizing.  Because crying is Acceptance ,without a smile. And i go about my life. Laughing, making others laugh. Writing poems and internals. Poems that are like life. Poems that do not rhyme. Laughing, and never crying. Oh, such stupidity.

The known, is known and done with. Don't sit back and relish on it. The unknown is worth everything. To the mountains that i haven't seen, To the rivers that i haven't flown with, to the campings that i haven't done, and to that old jeep i'm yet to own. To the poetry that i haven't read, And to the walks that i haven't walked, To this abstract,i have hope For this abstract, I'd rather live.

I feel like a time traveler. As if it has been decades,centuries of my existence. Don't mistake it as something haughty, or arrogant or something else. I read about things and i feel that i have been there and absorbed the melodies of those bygone years. I had been there with Sinatra, and with Morrison, with Axl Rose and his skin tight jeans. With Sackett, and with Kid Rodelo,I traveled the far blue mountains. Sipping black coffee,living off the grass, i survived the frontier with strong Irish people. Passing history as I walk,I feel the pebbles talking, the big oak smiling gently, laughing at my inquisitiveness. The foreign lands are not so foreign. And the seas have never been so calm. Soaked in knowledge of past years and people, it feels complete. There is contentment and yet,there is an urge to know more. Life's ending,one minute at a time. A subtle hurry it is.   

In a flash,it changed. The London weather gave way to the sunshine of southern France. That's how life was with her. In an instant she could come and twist and break me with a couple of strange upright non romantic letters. For her eyes bore into mine and melted me in an instant. Lazer eyes melted the soft iron core. But i liked it. I liked the way we would go on talking for hours and the world ceased to exist. Our words intermingled,to form poetry and that's how we would talk then. She is pretty. Those big eyelashes. That kajal smudge,for she used it,and i loved it. And strange as it was,i never knew what hit me until she was no longer there. Yes,in a flash it changed. The sunshine gave way to London weather,had me up in bottles of beer   and an unkempt beard. That's why i write at in the night. What is it now, 1: 20 am? Because he,who loved the light,made darkness his own. And she's all grown up, and the kajal's not so smudgy now. But i long to ...

The cynic in me has never been idle. But then,so has been the idealist in me. The capacity of the human mind and the non realization of it,both never fail to amaze me. Master creations we are dubbed as,sitting comfortably on the top of this IQ ladder. Great. So lets get some facts right. We are the only species on this planet who pay to live here. We pay for the house that we make,we pay for clean water because capitalists have floundered pollution norms. We live in a world full of debt. The sum of the GDP of the 50 poorest nations equals to that of the 3 wealthiest people. Starvation is rampant. So is poverty. We empty our pockets to advertisements and become forced consumers. It has never been so much 'in your face' before. And like responsible idiots, we have been sidelining it for so long. Master creations we homo sapiens. Really? What we should do is to question the dark cloud that traps us in the kind of world we are born in. And what we end up doing is be...

As i stand there,bowed head and a feverish forehead. And i see,creeping sadness does not spare life. Oh,the horror of it. Lovely were the days spent idle. A penchant of walking on wet concrete. Oh,the love of it. Oh,lost love. Why don't you make me cry? Destructing and resurrecting , Destructing and resurrecting. And the melancholic beauty of spent years, comes back to haunt the living daylights. And ends with a non-audible sigh. But the strangeness of life that it is, Annihilates itself. Leaving behind, hazy eyes and an extinguished soul.

At 4 in the morning,in a bleak hostel room with sleep all around me,I sit up with a thought to write. Write what? Ask swimming eyes and they would say sleep. And i can think of the only thing that was present in abundance at that time. Life. Snoring and sleeping,with half open mouths and unfinished dreams. And the strangeness of attempting to put it in words. Life is strange. At times, it will caress you,like a mother strokes her newborn. Softly,with a just audible lullaby. You will feel at home,with unmatched calmness. At times, it will test you,like rough waters do to a newly crafted ship. Waves upon waves,higher and higher still. If we did not know the love of life,perhaps we might not suffer from hardships. Because we long for it. We long for that caress,in the middle of the storm. With the forecastle lashed upon by frigid oceans of misery, we ache for that moment of peace. But the love is what keeps you going. Tempering you,not with a soft caress, but with blows having t...