The death of word, verse and dream

The malaise sat into my senses and trickled exactly into the lacunae left by the departed dreams. Now I feel I’d shortly bid adieu to whatever remaining links I have with the world. I feel like I have been living whatever Mr. Moeen Nizami said in the words below;

Hamaray lafz

aaghaz e marasim may tau kuch ma’soom say logo’n ko

bayhad achay lagtay thay

na janay in may kya kya tha, buhut mashoor kun thay woh

magar woh lafz jhootay thay, unhay tauqeer kya milti.

Hamaray shaer aaghaz e marasim may tau kuch ma’soom say logo’n ko

bayhad achay lagtay thay

woh dil darya kay mauti thay, adab may ghair mamooli izafa thay

magar woh shaer khotay thay, inhay ta’seer kya milti.

Hamaray khawb, aaghaz e marasim may tau kuch ma’soom say logon ko

bayhad achay lagtay thay

magary woh khawb andhay thay

inhay ta’beer kya milti.

Yeh anjam e marasim kay marahil hai’n

shikast e lafz o shaer o khawb kay yeh dil garifta aayeenay dil kay muqabil hai’n

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I will taint you ..

As you refuse

to own them —

the illegitimate words

that fertilized in the womb

of my mind,

(when your thoughts persuaded

my passion to produce

love poems)

I’ll throw them at your face,

I’ll taint you,

I’ll hand you the guilt

of their birth out of wedlock

if I’m ridiculed for their creation

this time again.

The Blank Diary

To similize the protagonist’s life to that of an un-attended diary might not be an apt analogy, but the thought came when I looked at the blank pages of the diary I keep rather unwritten. I’ve been treating my diary badly for not sharing with it things that it deserves but the blame should go to my inability than desire; I’ve been hit by a bad bad expression block for quite some time and the things I pour every now and then on this blog are desperate efforts to come out of it. This poem’s no exception. I’ll definitely like your comments for improvement.

A diary book famished
for a feeling to reflect,
I turn page after a blank
page of existence,
each the passing day,
yearning to absorb
your woes,
to preserve
your bliss.

In the pitch dark
your stare draws
a silver streak of hope
over this heart
but the words
I need, lie frozen
in your arctic self

I wait for
a climate change
to melt your thoughts
in a flow of words
towards me

and I’ll ever adorn
my being with the
gems you’ll express,
till I’m placed
in the archives
of the past.