Pain Behind The Beauty

The secret whispers and hues in the dark
What retrieval cues yet slip to remark
Those thousand times you tried to light up the dark…
All concealed in the beauty of one single spark!

Someday they are going to understand…
you’ve seen your life going away a million times.
Someday they will come to realize
what you hide between the lines.

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The Mirror

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Lights are out
The diary is lost
But I pick up the canvas
And a few crumbled pages

I hear the pen yearning to write
I see the colors painting the white
I spread my arms,
Smell the rain
Pierce my bones!
Its craving to hold on
to the window pane

I look up to the sky
It drops me the words I desire.
And in this cold

it ignited the fire

Memories are ready
Nostalgia is chasing
Euphoria is rushing
Writer cuddles the metaphors
The painter blushes

And the shackled voice
Frees itself…

in the name of silence
in the sense of poetry
in the form of colors
I paint sensation,

The nail biting news

And all of our lives…
in red and blues
Couplets of promises
knocking my door 

demanding their dues.

All the clamour

Amidst the glamour
Shriek and shimmer
for you my enamour.

Obliterating the darkness 
rises a glimmer
Poetry and shades

Intertwined to make a MIRROR.

Every night
in the splendid moonlight
You read in that mirror
The Universe speaks
of those shades again,
It sings of you
counting the stars…
It listens to your feet
dancing magic in the rain!

The writer, The painter
Deep down you know him.
You open those yellow crumbled pages
You caress the shades
with tender touch…

But when will you understand…
The crumbled page speaks of you!
The shades are all the colors of you.

Do you ever recall us ?
Do you ever realize
All this time
in the mirror

It was You
It has always…
been you…

 

Unlock your mind

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Why would a writer mind,
To unlock And express his mind…

Every smile, his progress a mile,
Or all the nights, he cries and dies

Just the smoke, he sees his victory behind,
Is if what he feels, to the ink can he bind…

And if he can explore the exact universe that he carries within,
The world of hearts, with a pen can he win!

But it costs a brain!

It pays devotion of a pristine heart.

It takes a real writer to print down the exact state of his senses …