Flower....

I wonder, me being a flower to you.
A little bit white and a hint of blue.
I wonder, if that'd make you smile.
If not that, then a pale yellow.
I wonder, if that'd make you say hello.
I'd grow ears, rather than petals.
I wonder, if that will make you talk.
I'd be ready for a long such walk.
I wonder, if I could stay so long
I'd actually, if it weren't nature's song.

"For today has passed,
tomorrow is yet too long.
For today you be mine,
tomorrow it'll again be nine"

 ‎I wonder, if I'd be a flower by then.
 ‎Just to wonder everything again.

She's a speech

She,
She was kind of like a metaphor.
Though to be an incomplete one,
she was one hell of an incomplete metaphor. 
The one, with whom you gotta
search out of the world to compare with.

She's kind of like a personified story,
penned to be a real one.
She's a one of kind, poem.
That can blend itself in all forms of verses of life.

Hers is the voice which alliterates through
her repetitions in my dreams.
The thought of her,is the one like a perfect
climax to a soothing life.
She's kind of like an omnipresent simile,
the one that can be like everything. 
She just can't be on the latter part of the simile,
for you won't find anything to be like her.

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.

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’.

Someday....it won't.

Someday, someday it will happen,

the sky will house the plants,

the earth will do the clouds,

it'll be the ice that'll boil,

and it'll rain, it'll rain soil.

Someday, someday it'll be true,

it'll be night that will make the sun rise,

and so will the moon, by the sky deep blue.

The deserts will run the tides,

the camels will walk the seas,

for treasures that reason a thousand greeds,

it will be nothing but a thirst for trees.

Someday, someday it may all sound right,

The thundering of branches,

the rustling of clouds,

for everything that seems to be calm,

it'll be nothing but the silence that shouts.

The air is merely a medium for the voices,

who knows whom will it betray,

what will it alter and what will it say. 

Someday, someday we'll all run back in time,

the clocks will too share the crime.

Everyone will age, age younger,

it'll then be the future that they'll grow older.

And then it'll be the future that shall be cursed,

and it'll be the past that shall be sought.

It'll be the death that'll welcome a life,

it'll be the birth that'll stab you with knife.

Someday,someday this won't happen,

All the things that have been waiting,

for that one 'someday' to be,

maybe that one day wont show up, and even if it did,

maybe then, it won't be your cup of tea!

(For every wish and every day that stalls around every nook and corner, don't let it pass by  thinking of doing it some other day.

MAYBE there wont be another,to bother!)

Life!

Life ? What is it ?
Is it just finding happiness,
Or running away from sorrows.
Or to accept whatever it throws. 

Is it just waiting for death,
or panting for breath.
Does it start with

throbbing of your heart,
and does it end with ceasing of your brain .
For some it is a daily fight,
not for honour but for grain .
For some live to the fullest,
while some struggle to get it out of drain.
Is it living with all the glittering gold,
or is it the struggle to have cloth
just enough to fold.
Is it to forgive

for to rise above hate ,
or just being reason to someone else's fate.

For some it is only
the matter of wealth,
for some who know what it can't buy,
plead only for health.
Does it exist even after your death,
or does it before you were born .

Who knows it all,
a granny with a day to fall. 
Or a child happy with it's doll.
For those who 
think only of cashes,
should remember only one thing,
that it's just matter of time,
for we all will be nothing but ashe's.

The question is  still unanswered.

If it were in the dark,

let it be lit.
Life ? What is it ?
For I think,
It's dilemma's perfect fit.