I am more than convinced,
in all its grandness,
that earth is one giant stomping ground,
is a festival of fools
so much do not make sense,
like how we are consumed by greed,
so much that humans are the only animals
that pay to live on earth
religion has the grandest ideas
on morality,
yet so many are evil - even the staunchest
believers
Humans are no better than animals
except humans can rationalize their evil
He is, by virtue, a man whose
well of excuses never runs dry.
Given an opportunity, or not,
he can always rely on a robust cache
excuses.
He can get away some of the times,
especially when he is not accountable to himself
He is too lenient with himself - Charles Chipcho
because Chipcho does what Chipcho wants
some things may mean the whole world
for a second, then it doesn't
everything lasts as long as he does not
find an excuse
or have an iota of care
At the touch of something divine,
A mere moment assumes new significance,
Yet, basking in the glorious world, words,
Words diminish the new meaning, perchance,
ashamed of their own nudity
A poet's words are often a vain attempt,
To fit an entire world in verse,
For to freeze time requires more than rhyme
To paint a moment requires more than canvas
In each poem are just jumbled words
No perfect poem ever makes sense
If it does, then it isn't a poem
No one is obliged to understand a poem
Many were composed by poets high on drugs
And the rest battling internal demons
maybe we dream too much,
maybe we are searching
an inexistent higher purpose,
maybe we are insignificant
yet we pretend to be
maybe we needlessly struggle
against a force too powerful,
that will eventually crush us
and condemn us to oblivion
maybe we should just rest easy,
be a little kind and gentle to ourselves,
maybe we should just to revel
in life's little simplicities
laugh at our own follies a little more
maybe we do not know
that which we think we know
maybe we are puppets
who dance to master's lullaby
a slow stroll down dry January
a tinge of regret masks merry
of the year past, and a deserved toast,
to dreams yet to come
a peculiar walk down dry January
an infinite number of day, all blurry
all queuing to be counted derelict
In one cold December morning
It's been tough, nothing much
despite deep and honest intentions
amounted from strenuous efforts
But, hey, isn't it December?
That's enough a reason to make merry
And reward oneself, once more
for three hundred and sixty five days
of bliss-filled, or lack thereof, existence
One midnight,
you will be home,
but feel stranded in a distant island,
and the songs you loved play in the background,
sounding more like dirges than
songs you can dance to.
Sombre
something grates your heart,
you try so much not to think at all
DON'T THINK! DON'T THINK!
Your brain doesn't obey the command,
It says that these are affairs of the heart
And it must be involved - it is the self-appointed judge, jury, witness,
and the advocate
The brain commands you to picture
the love of your life
in someone else arms
And you do - who are you to disobey a wise man?
The clock past midnight
and the dirges play on ... and on
Every wakeful moment
The wise spend it planning, learning or earning,
Losers spend it winnowing their airy dreams,
Wallowing in their misery,
And swallowing their future
