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13 MAY 2019 AT 20:32
I love writing but a little hesitant to reveal
Walk in the shadow of metaphors, try to conceal.
Pour the heart out but in the cloak of allusion.
and the elusive style adds to the readers' confusion.
Sometimes I sit in my melancholic Jeep and set out
through the boulevards of imageries on a journey
when suddenly the passive road encounters an
oxymoron and the path becomes a little jerky.
In mirth, my heart showers rhythms in consonance
and then my merriment and alliteration is in resonance.
The showers of gaiety splash, onomatopoeia tells the sound.
Irony walks along with me, satire is always around.
The pen becomes lively and in it the ink personifies
Allegories are humane, whenever they come, they humanize.
Synesthesia puts all the barriers between senses to an end
Sarcasms are little close but everyone is a good friend.-
5 JUN 2020 AT 18:13
Sound of silence you can't hear them in daylight,
But it was amazing & too alluring when it's night.
Rustling of the leaves with smoothly blowing air,
Clinking of the wind chimes what we may not care.
Continuous ticktoking faint sound of the wall clock,
Sometimes can also hear in swamp the frogs croake.
In harsh wind crunchy sound of near by tree branches,
The monotonous way how my window curtains flutteres.
When I couldn't get my sleep these sound heard fabulous,
Sound of silence makes my hours of solitude more luxurious.-
14 APR 2019 AT 9:40
वक़्त बदलता रहेगा तेरे नक्शे कदम चलता रहेगा
नारी का अधिकार दलित को मान सम्मान बढ़ाया
देश में फैले जातिवाद, छुआ छूत के रोगों को मिटाया
नाम तेरा जमाना हमेशा स्वर्ण अक्षर में लिखता रहेगा ll
9728109055-
21 JUL 2020 AT 20:25
a few yellow leaves rustle,
as a tiny wind whooshes through them.
wind? or is it, a sigh?
a sigh of a poet, who clicked his pen
through an array of words,
never really finding, what he wanted.
a soft drizzle soaks the ground.
rain? or is it a tear that spilled
out of a poet's eye, who murmured
phrases, none of which fit his verses.
a dreamcatcher jingles, and the poet
catches its dreams. a ripple splatters
and the poet matches its waves.
memories whir in the stale air
and the poet scrapes their smiles
into his pages, his breaths.
yet the old poet whispers,
"i can write nothing."-