In Search of Ambiguity

Let ambiguity come in search for us this time.

Its survival depends upon our confusion,

And its fate lies in its solution.

Why do we run behind it, if the destiny is to find it after all?

This time around, we decide the route,

All these shots this time- we call.

We would not let it fool us this time,

We would not run behind it like it has done a crime.

Rather, we would sit, relax and let it be.

How hard would it try to find us? We will see.

Let, the whole world know that we throw our weapons today.

Beating us in this game is not its forte.

We are in this not to lose or to win,

First, it laughed now we have a grin.

We don’t understand it, that we show.

But does it understand us! - We will know.

 

PS-I LOVE MYSELF

PS- I LOVE MYSELF

 

I wished I loved less of me, I wished I dint crave for me that much.

I passed, I failed, I often swayed, I dint do much to be proud of.

I hid I ran, I ducked like a swan, as troubles practically became my prop.

I prayed as I lay beneath high- waters, hoped for peace amidst man slaughters.

 When all was vague, all was scattered, then nothing else except me mattered.

Rogue, brat, and rebel you might call, I love myself even when I fall

Never helpless, but I am shameless and penniless at time, and I seldom care to sublime.

I have become what I am with neither courage nor candor,

As I have reached here with utmost surrender.

Surrender, to my will and only mine and I think I have been just fine.

I could have seen finer things; if I could have just let it be,

I fought hard, I really tried, but could not love less of me.

 

Words

Words

 

Every time I tear a page from a notebook, and as I squeeze the life out of that page, I leave it crumbled, lifeless and wriggled, and then- I burn it.

I perform the last traditional ceremony as if it’s important for the sanity of its soul,

I make sure that nothing remains of that page, so it can calmly make its journey towards the unknown.

But, it comes back; it does not haunt me and does not even try to be a part of my notebook. It sits there right in front of me, like it wants to say something but has lost its rights.

It reads what I had once written on it, reads it aloud so that I can listen, and feel nostalgic.

I think about every word I once wrote on it, everything which made that page mine and then I shrug as I don’t write that anymore.

I changed, so did my words and their pages. My words are free; they freely assemble on a plain page with no lines and boundaries. They create there own epiphany and in the due course make perfect sense.

These words, unlike the ones written before do not work under page defined rules; they are not all nice and courteous, they are not all of the same size and proper. Now, they are misaligned, vague, mean and vulgar, but true. They don’t stand in line and march up and down as before, as if their life depended upon impressing the page. The words now know they are independent, free to make sense and sometimes no sense.