Sprinting Thoughts

Sorting thoughts , peaceful thoughts , drawing life

Sprinting in circles,

taking rounds on roof

it felt like a tiger in a cage

who has nowhere to move.

Thoughts occupied my mind

waiting to spill out

like tea from pot,

boiling hot.

I looked at the sun

it was in its glory,

not yet emitting

the light, it is capable of

but orange, beauty on the ooze

Thoughts have to be controlled,

like the sun controlled its heat

waiting for the right time

to emit energy, unleash

Calmness is an art,

a beautiful painting

where PEACE it the paper,

white and clean

we just have to sort

the THOUGHTS,

Red, Pink, Blue,

Orange & Green.

A try to recall the dying writer

No blog post for long, pressure from work and from home. This has placed me far, from my favorite war, war with words, to differ from the herds. so here came i, to give another try. It may sound pathetic, and make no sense, but it has to come, from the dense, so that i could see the dawn….

Writer crawling, from within skin,

Kicks up often, to ask for run,

To cover up distances, bridge the gap,

Woke me from my power nap, with a shock,

Don’t be a slumber, it’s time to rock,

It won’t last for long,

Days grow quickly, then the dark starts,

Trees fall in autumn or shred their parts.

Leave some mark, which glow in dark

Like the star, visible from far.

Confused thoughts,

Who can sew them up?

Just the fail, a lover’s mail

To the girl of his dreams,

Nice, she seems, play clever

The logic is hard, what’s on the cards,

Who know, people grow and act sharply?

Money matters a lot, poor are nice they thoughts,

Thoughts don’t feed them up,

So they screw, steel the clue, fight the destiny, or die,

Show your make or cry,

It’s a war anywhere you see, no excuses, no plea,

Hit it or beat, fight for bread or meat,

Grow grow and grow more,

Tie up your tiny chores,

Because there are bigger fights to be won,

No places to run

A writer has to write, as a fighter has to fight,

Sense or not, enemy or thought.

They come and die, the looser cry.

The writer craws, from within skin,

Its time high, to realize,

What’s your make?

What’s your akin?