Clock with Equal Hands

A squeaky voice pierced my eardrum against my brain,
fast feet, slow feet, zigzag feet, static feet making prints on the memory,
sweat rolling from the forehead, cleaning the dust from blocked fortune lines.

Veils on faces, couldn't trap those pretty eyes weaving dreams out of free air,
old hands on new cards, some raise the bet, some of them fold,
a reflection caught my sight, lost in the crowd, seems so profound,
lines of his head relaxed when I realized it was a mirror.

Some dreams turn sepia and decay,
some of them see the sun of may,
we all are a visitor there with no privileges to amend,
"Hey! What's the time?"
I can't tell. Not from a clock with equal hands!

Pieces of my Whisky Glass

I gulped it in a single go as the bartender looked at me with surprise mixed with little bit of condolence, just like the cocktail she served me few seconds ago. It'll take few minutes to work, few minutes and then they'll fall apart, one by one. These senses which prefer to see bad over good things. It listens cars honking, people shouting but when the little bird across the yard chirps in the dawn it chooses to ignore it. My imaginations are turning nastier day by day. Give me some colors and I'll make a mess out of it.
Our imagination are like advertisements these days. Little flashes of ideas and we choose only those ones which can make our pockets heavier.

Nighthawks by Edward Hopper

So here I'm, trying to loose my wallet up. Trapped in this money circle. I had a dream that when I'll make good money I'll be spending it for buying my happiness. Seems like I can't buy it with money but I sure can buy a momentary escape from my sufferings. Huh! That cocktail seems too light. I'm still thinking like I'm sober. I'm still vulnerable. Still can see all the people sitting beside me on the bar table.
Some of them are frustrated, looking at their glasses after every sip as if they are drinking their lives up.
Or may be the part of life they don't want to remember. Others, just drinking it for doing things that their sober mind doesn't allow them to do. So if they do it they can blame it on the booze. Pretty convenient!

I ordered another glass of whisky. Bartender put two ice cubes in it. That jingle it produced was soothing. Our life is more or less  just like this glass of whisky. We came pure in this world, with so much to give, so much to live. God! Such a spirit we had. But then time started sipping us bit by bit. It put some ice cubes to fool us. To make us believe that loosing some good spirit can be compensated with some materialistic happiness. It is still melting in me. It'll stop only when I'm too cold to live.

I turned the last key of my escape when I drank the last drop of my whiskey. Ice cubes were still there with no purpose left. Then I paid the bartender for her courtesy. She smiled when I gave her tip and a wink. I unknowingly forgot to leave the glass at the table. Scene was blurred already. Couldn't see those sorry people on the table anymore.

With some combined effort of my fumbling hands and legs I pulled myself out of the chair. I was trying to look fine and happy. After two steps and my feet gave away. I dropped the glass on the floor before it dropped me. With my head lying on the floor I saw some pieces of my whisky glass and two ice cubes, one melting on the floor and the other one, inside me.

Under the Shadow of a Dead Tree

I've followed some rivers, with their roaring and calm behavior
I was left amused and the stars in sky left again
leaving no traces in the sky,
and so many on my delicate mind.

I've ran along with my dog through long grasses
until it loses me intentionally, just to hear me call it's name
so simple is the definition of it's utter joy that
my happiness seems like a crossword puzzle to me.

I've dipped my feet in ice cold water and felt the chill
reach my brain and made me realize how alive I'm
and how alive is the world around me
the green stones on the water bed seemed to wave in agreement.

I've sat below an old, dead tree, talking to it
not blaming it for giving me no shadow but thanking
for being a stoic, a static hero of this transient and perishable world.

I've smudged some footsteps, from this ground of war
some led me to wastelands but most of them made it to graveyards
some their's and some of those with less fortune.

I was given two colors and a single brush,
red and green, couldn't dip it in both or it'll turn
black, death, despair and destruction.
So I painted this world with green
and kept the black for myself.

Green Room Dumpster

We live in this beautifully crafted, delicately balanced and ever growing world. Our boundaries for our needs and ambitions are restricted by values that time has taught us. And believe me, 'restriction' gives us a wrong sense actually. These restrictions are what keeps us from stepping over the destructive growth index.

In today's world, we have replaced our conscience with some currency symbols. The materialistic exposure swipes away all our good instincts, covers our eyes and ears just like a bunch of reporters hurdled around a celebrity. The flashes of bright light and continuously shooting questions makes his/her day but keeps the senses occupied with a false sensation. We have seen and experienced an ultimate growth in every aspect of human involvement. We always raised the bar. We always challenged the "impossibles" and conquered it most of the times.

We stand on this table of natural resources and try to reach out for the highest fruit on the tree. We always take it for granted, want it's legs to be longer so that we may reach higher. But we never noticed that the legs of the table are about to give in, standing on which we show our heavy achievement with a chest stuck out with false proud and a mean grim.

We know this table is gonna break down.
We know we'll fall.
But we don't want to get our clothes dirty to clean our hose.

"We claim, we win.
  We pray, we sin.
  O Adam's son!
  You've cut the tree.
  You've pawned your heart,
   have set the sword free.
  One day you'll see through the light,
  that there's a darkness behind

  one day you'll rise, not to kill
  but to clean the mess and a will to find!"

Empty Jars

We all are born, raised and evolved in different places of this same Earth. With possibly unique overall characteristics. It possibly can be classified under some usual and frequently studied categories, categories which makes lots of our actions predictable. Predictable things usually make most of our daily routine life.

Prediction makes us happy. It's not like we can tell which side the coin will fall but we can tell what effect it will produce in next person's mind. And then like falling dominoes, a picture is created. A flowchart of further predictions. Before knocking down the very first domino, we manipulate with some, change their positions for our own benefit.



But sometimes people have vivid and bizarre characteristics. We try to box them in pre-captioned designations, just like we categorize songs based on their genre. But we just can't. Their multidimensional personality and randomness makes it almost impossible to predict their actions. It fills us with a fear. An obvious truth, that we too, are a part of this predictable herd.

We try to grow, from the cracks of an old rock. We try to vibrate, just like a fly caught in an abandoned spider web. Too weak to break the stone and too tired to try out again.

We stop. We die.

We used to be fluid when we were kids. Could have taken any shape, any size. Then time put us in these tinted jars and left us in the oven of time, for baking. To grow static and solid.

I wonder if I can break my jar.

No Name #1

It's a juggle of ideas on this adolescence-air filled balloons of bumpy brain. I always wonder, on what criteria we pick a thought to think about, out of randomly dancing ideas. Reminds me of those brick breaking games where we just have to prevent the ball from dropping but the shot is always oblivious to us.

The idea of trapping myself in these complex ideas about what ideas I'm hosting in and then categorizing and labeling them as foolish, mature, philosophical and rubbish, seems redundant to me.
But it's repetition is not bothering me because may be it's the original routine of life.

You might be thinking, what kind of stinking crap is that! But it's just like when you get this bad feeling in your gut before starting this long journey which you don't like. I puked some crazy, crude thoughts here. Filtered the unprocessed ideas. Brushed some of the rusty iron from the sword.

It's a good feeling.