Developed or less-developed

One lonely night,

By my own,

 I answered and murdered by my own.

I cheated myself on the myths of,

Being developed,

From ancients to formers.

Being wild to deputed,

I travelled so far, that

When I look after forgottens,

I laugh and admire my success..

But, is that much true…. What I thought?

I proudly said yes!I am.

A small finger point at me,

Trough the bottom of my heart and,

I dismissed it’s hearing.

That is what I am doing from a long time.

I know that, somewhere somewhat I am cheating on me….

I modified the definition of being developed,

I replaced the word as I convenient.

To hide the truths behind the myths.

I pretended several times with a smile on my face…

Admitting that what I am doing is the only trend.

I refused to mess with presence,

I stop even to understand the differences,

Between being developed and undeveloped,

Because,

I changed the meanings of both words.

Development measures the physical state of our life style not that was related to intellectual.

Undeveloped means only being not earning much to satisfy desired life style.

Is it not so?

I admitted yes!

Money is first and last thing to do with all others.

Perhaps! I am right but my heart rebel brain.

It still points a finger….

That I lacking the development of 

State of my mind,

I still behind to except the changes,

Related to socialism, religion and morality.

And it’s true… when I talks about these I fell stuck….

And my heart runs away from my brain… Being developed to less developed…

Ink Abuse

Long ago in history,

Paper read to cover mistry.

To recollect the intellectuals of minds,

Which worked towards the innovation.

Of mankind,

Of humanity,

Of livingness,

Of scientific approaches,

Of bitterness which they faced and

They declared them paths,

Of  loneliness to completeness,

To illiterate to educated.

That was a glory of ink,

Which severed the innovations and mankind….

Aah! Today ink abuses,

In the era of vast knowledge,

And expertise.

From deeper to Galaxy.

The ink abuses…. To the mankind

To humanity, to morals to ethics.

All lost into the drains,

Of educated illiterates.

It lost its ways of eagerness,

It terms a circumference of no ways.

Moulding the same ways of positiveness, 

Into the wrong ways which they dropped,  after experience.

The ink abuses….. Where we are walking,

To whom we are talking,

Blaming other of own failure,

Dragging other for success.

Is that what our old ink taught us??

Is that what our history led us??

Now ink abuses….

Writers write to be popular,

Anything wright or wrong, people blindly troll them..

For business or fooling themselves…

…… Now ink abuses…..

Hiding facts and spreed myths,

It became the reality beneath..

And it’s obvious to she because 

Every one wants to enjoy,

Others guild, other myths..

Bitter taste unhealthy for heart,

And wrong medicines lead you apart…

Facts are known but we still unknown.

Because ink abuses….

Ink abuses…..

The Death Ends Here…

Soon after sun shine,

my heart blames the Night.

For not being so sticky,

That day couldn’t broom.

Laziness abandoned my Iris,

To be flourish through eyelids.

Oh! My God…  Not again,

Same Day…. Same work… Same tiredness.

I am so fed up with it.

Wanna ring some change,

Aah! But what?

What makes my days better?

What actually not being bad?

Oh!………..

Day dried up, time to go office,

Let me think….. Will there be change?

No….At all.

Let me try again…

This is what ‘Not Again’.

 

 

 

 

 

Some time it’s compulsory to say, ‘I love you’.

Having your arms in mine,

Today! Don’t safe guard me.

From my own…. It’s kinda

Difficult to explain, but

It’s true… Something has changed.

And I am on mission to understand.
It’s not that I don’t have love for you, but

It’s complicated to pretend, that

I missed you.
Your face is in front of me,

Your body waving in air,

I can smell you too. But

Still thing is same.

Baby I miss you…
Do I ask one question?

Did I made some mistake?

In the past, in present or just continuing the same,

Baby I love you…
Stupid….

Fool… I know you may say.

But just want to hear that…

That..
Baby you love me..

Pipal’s Tree

In the indian era of traditions,

Pipal’s tree has its own importance.

But I see it as Old Monk,

With vast experience and exposure.

A tower with proud, faced

Number of difficult exposure.

But remained stick to its roots,

To grow old and show it’s glory.

I accept it’s fellowship, to enlighten

My heart when stuck in past.

But I am a plant of future,

Born in chest of Pipal,

Grabbed tight it’s branches,

To experience it’s conquest. 

But in the end I grow flowers, 

Of my own type,

Of my own virtue,

Of my own ways of glory,

And Pipal has to be quiet,

Because I lead the way to future,

And I carry it’s recognition,

To next generation.

Old Voice

My words look for proud,
From this new generation.
My old, strengthless voice,
Several time faced full stop,
In interval of few minutes.

And, asked ‘Why?’
Why they don’t want to listen me,
Why they are avoiding my faith?
What are the possible reasons?

Disappointment caught my body,
I feel deadly before death.
And tored paper of my behalf,
Admitting mistakes of my past..

We never taught them ethics,
We never forced them to respect,
We never showed them mercy,
We never liquidised their heart.

Then how they will feel?
Then what can heal,
Agony of my heart, and
Respect my words,
To concrete my situation.

Aah! They never listen,
They never act,
They only oppose,
My experience, my maturity,
Like a experience one..

Is it okay?
No!
I failed myself as messenger,
Of carefullness, lovingness, affectionateness, and,
Of ethical livingness.

I can see my future,
Darker than midnight.
I can feel my personality,
Lighter than Ice.

Is that okay? I will die proudnessless,
Without valuing my words,
Spotting them priceless.
Among the blood line of my clan.

No!
I know that.
But couldn’t do anything.
I am a old voice,
And my words lost importance.