Mama

Mama, I've found the truth
She's beautiful.
I've grown up
And grown strong
I've been hurt
And I'm in pieces
Mama, the world lied
But she doesn't
She wouldn't
And she's beautiful.
Mama, I'm patient
And the truth needs it
And I'm alright
I'm hungry
And I feed on myself
I can't feed on no one else
You didn't raise me that way
And you're beautiful.
Mama, I'm fine
Send Father a hug
Tell him I'm a man
I hug the child inside me
Each night and sleep
He's restless
He'll be that way.
Mama, I’ll be home soon
I won't come empty handed
I'll have her memories
I'll tell you how beautiful she is
And I won't be the same
But I'll be the same for you.
Mama, I've found the truth.
She's beautiful
She still is
And she will be.

Hazelnut Latte

This one's for the loners. Although I hope you get that I'm trying to convincing myself a little and there's some angst to it.
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I'm at a cafe and I look like a guy whose date didn't turn up
But who is also at the same time not bothered about it
And it surprises them
For its odd to find someone completely on their own these days
For solitude is rare
And so the people stare

The waiter comes to take the order
And he questions the singular nature of my hazelnut latte
And I reassure him with complete contempt
"I will be here for a while and alone
And it's nothing bad, or sad
For this is just the way I like it
And no, I won't fight it"
And he brings me complementary chips.

I hated the chips  
They were dry and over-spiced
And a speciality commonly ordered in the cafe
And I hate specialities and commonalities.
I don't sympathise or conform with them, you see.

I finish my latte with the express understanding that people will always judge,
And no, I won't budge.
I just won't.
I finish my latte, glass dry
At least I try.
And the waiter as he will, brings the bill.

I pay it all and get my change
And I leave a tip.
A tip good enough for two people.
I walk away alone as I came.

Call the Cameras

I've been addicted to Elliott Smith...again. I seriously love the way he wrote his songs. His story is one of the most interesting ones I've come across and it makes me really sad and obsessed. His music is seriously addictive. Here's to Elliott.
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Baggy clothes and shabby hair

He holds a balloon of his heart

His mind holds not the slightest care

Yet his thoughts could take him apart

Call the cameras, they'll make up a story

They won't care, they'll spell his name wrong

He'll be the last one to notice it all,

He'll be gone by the end of his song, by the end of his song

His mind a Roman candle that burns with the sorrows he holds

His heart broken to bits, held together forever by cold

And his feet tired of dancing and dancing on pots of gold

Inside as beat up he may be, tries to appear bold

Call the cameras, they'll ask him to be there

They'll push him away out of their way

He'll move aside like he always does

And avoid it for he knows he'll be gone away, with nothing to say; nothing to say

He sang the songs of a tired soul,

His words put us in the warmest black hole,

But his peculiarity took its toll

They said his own life he stole

Call the cameras, they'll call it tragic,

And say it was all for the best

He'll be alive as if by magic

And we'll forget about all the rest, about all the rest.

What is Love?

A lot of  my posts are somehow about love. I guess it's got to do more with my age and I can't really help it. This post is more of a diary entry than a piece of actual literary writing. Its I think the most simple post I've written. I recently had the fortune of meeting this person and we discuss almost every topic under the sun. I'm really thankful to this person because it takes that one person to make things so clear and in perspective. I hope my anonymous inspiration reads this. 

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Love is possibly the biggest cause of misery in a person. That is a fact.

Drunkenness is its own kind of misery, true. But one may drink to drown the memories one’s unrequited love. Nobody asks if a drug fiend injects copious amounts of poison into his veins for he never got the love he thought he deserved. Nobody ever thought about the man who gave it all away because nothing else mattered as he thought he had it all for a moment.

I’m naïve. I really am. So I don’t know what really drives the pursuit towards love. Why we wish to seek its warmth where each of us thinks it belongs. How it belongs. How it makes us feel.

I tried looking for the answer in Science. Darwin told us we evolved from apes. Price told us altruism was an evolutionary instinct. Nobody told us what love is.

I turned to religion for answers but I got confused further. For it confused me why God would want love to exist in a fog of misery. Then Friedrich Nietzsche told me God is dead.

Maybe the answer is too simple but comes with only with a hard core pursuit towards love. Cause, while many scholars never find why it exists, a tiny voice inside your head still goes ‘It’s just love, silly’. It tells you love’s nothing to be afraid of. It tells you it feels so good and it does. Why can’t you be sure though?

I wish I knew the answers. But I don’t.  And quite frankly I don’t want to. I’d rather not. Geniuses over-think. I'm barely one. And as simple as I want to keep it I hope I’d feel it better. I know I’d feel it better.

We have all these complex terms and ideas of how love should be. How it should have all these unnecessary rules. How it should never be so simple. Why can’t it be so simple? Why can’t it be just a simple beautiful thing between two people?

I don’t have the answers to all those questions. I never will. But I know I always will have love to look forward to. To pursue in the depth of my heart. To ponder over.

But I know one thing for sure. Love isn't misery. It might not even be the cause of misery. It’s just love, silly. 

The Ballad of an Asshole

I haven't posted anything lately mainly because I was too lazy to type what I'd scribbled. I did try to type some stuff but gave up succumbing to laziness (for the lack of a better word). You know what they say, 'Procrastination is the mother of all joblessness' (No they don't). Anyway it was today when I came up with a great start when I thought of something that blew my own mind : Assholes have hearts too! I tried to relate it to the actual body part and a person labelled as an 'asshole'. It was something really random and in the end I wasn't able to make the relation I was looking for but ended up with a really retarded rhyme that doesn't make sense: 

Assholes have hearts too
Their hearts are like the perineum muscle
Cause assholes might be assholes
Their predicaments are like colonic hustle

They might seem gross and hairy
Still they do have gentle hearts
But when situations get really scary
They can muster deadly farts

An asshole might be an outcast
But they still have a lot of grit
On your favorite list they might be last
But they still hold up after all the shit

I really need to find better subjects for poetry -_-