Photograph

All our smiles,
with few bits of sorrows,
and load bits of joy.
From the point,
people start to live and lie,
to the time when they shed and die.
A lot of things get in,
and get locked.
All are anchored in 4th dimension,
all are docked.

A bit piece of paper,
 was it so,
it had all the smiles and sorrows,
Right from the first of walks,
all but flashes of tiny bit of talks.
With a bunch of people on it,
who had kept the past, bright lit.
Few continued being on it,
while some falsed to be a fit.

A bit piece of paper,
Neither it did bring back the time,
Nor it ceased the sceptic caper.
It just held the world for that moments' crime.
All those moments were graphed too tight,
For what they didn't change at anyone's sight.

An utter random moment caught up in time,
with a little bit of sigh
and a bit of smile,
neither can they be held up to file,
nor can be scaled, for much of a dime!

That's the catch no one gets,
Not every photograph makes it to paper,
Not all of them can be displayed upright,
they are all caught up in brain and heart,
Some name it as memories,
Yet are simply,a photograph.

At Ends...

We'll meet somewhere at the world's end, to walk down the streets that don't bend.
To the distances,
where things don't need to be mend.
We'll walk them down,
with whatever lies ahead to fend.

At the ends where it rains upside down,
where the skies aren't blue but brown.
There,
we'll meet there, where we'll have clouds to drown.
At the ends where the winds don't blow,
where the stars too have ceased to glow,
where the time paces a bit slow.
There,
we'll meet there, 
where rivers will stop and we'll start to flow.

At the ends where our voices won't meet,
we'll have our words scribed on the falling sleet.
At the world's end for sure I want to meet, 
to revert the time right to our first greet.
Not so as to change it all, 
but to have lived once again before the last fall.

A bit little selfish!

Just a notion of thought,
well, reading this might make you think, that it’s false, that it doesn’t happen this way, but still have a go and think about it for one more moment.

 We meet a whole lot of people as we walk our way through life. Out of which we specifically love a few.
When anyone one of them dies or find their way away from here to  an afterlife, we grieve.We cry in their memory.
It’s nothing bad about crying and expressing your sadness, but have you ever wondered that, all you do is a bit kind of selfish.
Everyone cries at the demise of their dear ones, but what act actually we cry for is somewhere pointedly centred towards us.
We cry because, we can no longer be in the company of that person or we couldn’t spend more of the time left out there.
All the 'reasons', 'becauses', and everything else includes, we not being able to have our wishes or live what we thought of, with them. All of the reasoning is true but the only thing to point out here is ‘WE’. It’s just about us not having to spend time with them, us not able to have a good time with as used to, us and us. It’s good that we all consider them as a part of our life’s equation, but nevertheless we don’t cry over that part being gone, rather we fret over how are we going to balance our equation of life.

Nobody cries or grieves thinking for, it would have been great for that person, if that person would have been here,
how good it would have been for that person to be here, to be happy.
These are never the reasons one cries over. If are, they’re seldom.
There are very few of them who can reason their tears to others.
All of this just gets to one point,
we all are selfish, though we may have thought of it unknowingly but yes all the reasons do point out what bit of  selfish we are.
Not a bit of mean selfishness, but what I would say of it is , 'it’s just another white lie’.

Writers

Writers write, readers read,
A little less than they know,
It's far more than difficult to provide them what they greed.
Many a times nights grow deep,
It's not the habit that fouls the sleep,
rather it's the time when everything seeps.
Calmed at face, but mind chaosed with different ideas.
Each of which run in different way,
some go on and find the way, while some tend to stray.
These are the ways which reach out people,
People I say because,
some pretend and read,
While some get offended,
If not for sentiments than for creed.
While some walk the way as dreamt,
So do they fall for the little things 
that words did paint!

It's always this that the writers fear,
Though the pens' mightier than the sword.
It's the swords that run down flesh,
when the words cut through the religious mesh
Writers write, readers read,
Its never the number of copies that get sold,
but is the number of souls they freed!

Why!

Why do the skies run dark,
when they could have just stayed blue.
Why do we keep counting stars,
when we even, don't keep the count.
Why do the books read words,
when they could have just have them written.
Why do people fret about the fall,
when they could have just left it to destiny's call.
Why do they keep seeking,
when all of it seems less to be enough.
Why do they think too deep,
 when it all makes them to fret and to creep.
Why do they perceive that life is strange, when it's the same with a less bit of change.
Why do you dream,
when it's not sure whether you are living one or about to sleep to see one.
Why do we fall,
when it's all gonna end up standing up tall.
Why do they follow the herd,
when it's time for them to be heard.

Why do we have a habit to wait,
when it's nothing but a times' bloody bait.
Why do we frown about how serious is life, when it itself laughs and asserts out loud,
''It'll never about how is it so?, rather better it'd be if 'how' is the 'WHY' ".