something i had penned wen i was in class 11th...dnt even remember why i was upset...

The solitary journey….
As I tread on the path of life, so lonely, fatigued, sequestered I feel
Never before had I felt so somber and melancholic, so devoid of excitement and zeal
I just see and endless road, tranquil and desolate, no one by my side, no friend no mate
I have no idea where my destination is, still I walk on an on with a steady gait
Where are the sun moon and the stars, where are the trees, mountains and the flowers
There’s just darkness and mist sparse
In my little heart I keep thoughts buried deep very deep
Thoughts too deep to be expressed and too strong to be suppressed
I hear a strange melancholic sound, the thoughts weep that my heart will be their burial ground
They try incessantly and search for a vent, my heart is in turmoil and I sit down to lament
Alone I had come and alone I’d go, life is a solitary journey this life will show
My thoughts with myself I share, because the world is so lonely with no one to care.
My eyes become wet when I think of this solitude; do I have no mate, no friend in this multitude?
The vent for my thoughts was possibly my eyes; the thoughts have found a way out as my heart cries…

I live the poetry that I cannot write....

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these….to undo whatever has been done…to redefine what has been captured in the parenthesis of definition and to create magic with thoughts buried deep, very deep within your heart….thoughts that are too deep to be expressed but too strong to be suppressed.

That is poetry for me…..

It’s not just a theme, the rhyme scheme and with a dash of the dictionary….it’s far more abstract and abstruse.

People read the words and may find the writings very simplistic and easily comprehendible. What however they fail to capture is the feel behind the word; the myriad of thoughts that chain the mind before that one perfect word is penned... the one word that breaks the shackles of oblivion and finds its path to glory.

What people don’t see is the escape that the mind wants to make from the reality and dwell momentarily in a world of its own, where it is supreme, where it is asked no questions, where it is not supposed to be subservient to rationale.

Having said all that I still believe that poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them. The ecstasy, the gloom, the fear, the anger has to be lived and experienced. Language is too shallow a platform to replicate the same. When I write I realize, I understand what each word means but you cannot. On a macrocosmic level you will, because you are armed with the tool of knowledge but my dear friend, the microcosm is unfathomable. Words become too less, phrases become too mechanical to chalk my escape from emotion.

Therefore, I live the poetry that I cannot write….

Just as Vincent van Gogh once said….

“Poetry surrounds us everywhere, but putting it on paper is, alas, not as easy as looking at it.”