12:34 AM
Saptadeep
Sometimes, someone's life seems so bloody perfect, that your imperfection glares at you. A happy family, a happily married life, a good job, a great girlfriend.....and among all these perfectionists, there lives millions of imperfect fellows....This poem is for those DESTINY'S FUCKED UP CHILDREN.
A thousand words wasted.....a million to go,
Fighting with himself.....he had his happiness to flow;
But the laughter dimmed and the wails aloud,
The butchered heart once again cried loud.
He tried to breathe life to the tear soaked paper,
Scribbled the title, “It’s now or never”;
Lit the stale smoke he saved for the day,
And let the moment lazily graze away.
The words came and yet flew by,
The silent pen refused to oblige;
The empty bottle of vodka laughed at my wits
I struggled for the night, while she called it quits.
The morning kissed the night goodbye,
The sky from my window lent a pretty sight;
The poet resigned in his struggle to rhyme,
And his futile attempt to make himself smile.
Hours fled till the sun baked the earth,
The birds chirped a mournful dirge,
The open window rattled in the wind,
Releasing the silence caught within.
The blood stained paper fluttered in the breeze,
“It’s now or never” as the moment ceased;
His final words held his reason to smile;
“A silent poem from a fucked up child”.
ITS NOW OR NEVER
- SAPTADEEP BASU (2011)
With a pen in his hand & a memory in sight,
Began the poet in his struggle to rhyme;
Juggling with his words till the end of the night,
Promising him, an end to smile.
Began the poet in his struggle to rhyme;
Juggling with his words till the end of the night,
Promising him, an end to smile.
A thousand words wasted.....a million to go,
Fighting with himself.....he had his happiness to flow;
But the laughter dimmed and the wails aloud,
The butchered heart once again cried loud.
He tried to breathe life to the tear soaked paper,
Scribbled the title, “It’s now or never”;
Lit the stale smoke he saved for the day,
And let the moment lazily graze away.
The words came and yet flew by,
The silent pen refused to oblige;
The empty bottle of vodka laughed at my wits
I struggled for the night, while she called it quits.
The morning kissed the night goodbye,
The sky from my window lent a pretty sight;
The poet resigned in his struggle to rhyme,
And his futile attempt to make himself smile.
Hours fled till the sun baked the earth,
The birds chirped a mournful dirge,
The open window rattled in the wind,
Releasing the silence caught within.
The blood stained paper fluttered in the breeze,
“It’s now or never” as the moment ceased;
His final words held his reason to smile;
“A silent poem from a fucked up child”.
***
