Gray

Gray 

HOW?

stuttering, morbid

and shapeless cretins 

thrive on; ceaselessly marching

by vandalising the straight repeatedly.

Living within a spiritual contest, humans 

outdo themselves becoming fools time and again.

A mere validation to survive; no real purpose.

A mere lie to live, perhaps a false satisfaction.

A meagre existence in randomness but only to naked eyes;

for a true seeker sees beauty in multitudes that unfold later

and not in minuscule lives of the puppets who come to go.

For that’s how it works and that’s how unimportant you are and were.

The puzzle needs you as another piece; pieces see you as just another piece. 
Live and die as now you know; you only come so that you go because 

that’s how it works and you should know. That’s how it works, and you should know.

Innate Dystopian

After some deliberate contemplation, I’ve concluded that chasing perfection can lead you nowhere. 

Or let’s put it this way; seeking perfection in every aspect, and for now let’s say writing, will only take your farther away from imperfection and not to some utopian stardom you seek to achieve. Some would now argue that the lesser imperfect you are, the more perfect you are; I couldn’t agree more. But how less imperfect and more perfect can never be determined can it? 
I’m paying heed to some instructions, per se that was suggested from an ardent reader. It took me some time to convince myself and now I guess the change is rather obvious. 

No more of jargon. No more of over-the-top complexity in sentences. It’s boring and sassy, but boring nevertheless. 

Another interesting thought I came upon while I was comprehending my actions was how obsessed I became to flaunt my whatever degree of prowess in literature. I realised that there were two sides to a blog and I’m still undecided on where I stand. 

• There’s the type of blog which wants its readers to have the better say.
• There’s the type of blog written for the author’s satisfaction.

It’s an unequivocal claim when I say it’s more likely not that people would like to remain in the between of the said two sides. It’s also not too soon before I really decide in what way I continue to blog. 
So, just as this, all of us have certain utopian desires. But the sad plight of the nature of human activities is that almost unquestionably every unconvincing quest ends in a dystopian consequence. As in, you either end up impressing and satisfying yourself or the others around you. It’s as simple as that. 

People who say they can live both lives are those half-assed involved dimwits who’ve got no clue how to spend a lifetime. 

The undying, unsaid, ugly truth that I’ve learnt it, on the the long run, no matter what, you can either impress and satisfy yourself or others around you. Period.

Funeral

The Funeral
A monochromatic gathering, all in black; not just the apparel but also at heart. 

The woman they knew, they loved, they admired;

is gone but in mortality alone.

Hitherto a soul confined to a body, now she exists as much more;

in laughters, in tears, in photographs and countless memories of yore.  

She departed through with and along a pyre, an urn and the blazing fire.

The significance of her departure seemed conveniently oblivious 

to those who knew her not as the branch of a river or the wind in the sail-

which was but all she was.

As mere words were uttered but ignored by many ears;

as sobs were followed by salty, grief filled tears;

as the sky was blue, above her, awaiting and

the smoke was there, dispersing the sorrow;

as so much is happening for not whom she is but for whom she was;

she gave them more to remember than to ask for;

she left them all- she went alone, alone she went, the wretched lass. 

The Pizzaz of English

The pizzazz of English.

Picture, O reader, an Orchestra- humbly defying thy expectations.

Unseen and overlooked, this ensemble of elegance addressed 

to one and all as Language, is the epitome of pulchritude. 

Hear the Orchestra, for it follows.
‘Hear’ well and you’ll know, 

the oink of the pig or the tic-tac of the clock;

the hiccup from the throat or cooing of the flock;

are all mere words but yet onomatopoeic.
Now, ‘hear’ well and contemplate too

for what follows might amaze you.

So the homophone that rang belonged to which witch?
Now sing along and say it right, 

irrespective of your soprano or thick, 

‘Arabian Sands’ are vast 

thence comes your synecdoche. 

Thou sang along; albeit all wrong.

Oh Fudge! Oh fish!

Thou art euphemistically dysphemis.
Having said it wrong, let’s kompose and write –

like the ku klux klan have satirikally misspelled.

Did’ya cnow? They replaked the C with the K and 

Kaused kaos uncnowingly.
For thy birth they merged, thy wer and thy wyf 

Speaking of chaos, I couldn’t resist;

to mention thy birth and for that I shall

shoutout to thy wer and thy wyf.
I shall try to be a paronomastic man, 

But, I’m big and large- as thou can see

and I’m not one to be puny.

Wavered, pondering and lost all hope?

Fret not, O reader, here comes more.

Meet the Antanaclasis, informing thee that

time flies like an arrow; flies like banana.
Did you ever know the story 

where there lies glory

for the blind carpenter who 

picked up his hammer and saw? 

O reader, you’ve been hit by 

syntactic ambiguity, hard and raw.
Take a walk on the garden path and find thou shall

whatever lies above this.
Shoutout to Steven Wright for his analogy was right

For he said that he knew and he wasn’t speaking of the right,

“On the other hand…… you have five other fingers.”
And for the one liner that she read, humorous perhaps;

her hair too wasn’t red, but she surely didn’t get,

what the ‘one-liner’ was meant to be cause

some blond joke, get it?
-Hariharan Sriram (The Skookum).