Collecting Pieces

Find yourself in pieces
after the journey of hard knocks,
picking up the fragments,
which glitters in darkness.

Leading to who you are,
and were before,
its a recollection
we are asking for.

Stick a flag,
drop an anchor.
That way we know where to go
and not end up in circles.

It's pointing there,
as indicated on my compass,
let's go, let's go
and we make haste.

The Beast

Feel like getting out of the house.
All that is happening has happened
time and time before.
Only with each cycle,
turning worse than ever.

Call it demons,
haunting,
or anything of the dark,
that never stop its' pursue
till you are gone for good.

Nothing without reason,
reason without logic.
How is one to believe
and stay sane
in this mortal prison?

No one escapes,
and no prisoner is kept.
Once you are here,
you will lose it all,
all you ever knew.

Claim not a single possession
lest your sanity,
if you can hold it still,
while they rob you
till its all bare.

Wings are given
then torn to pieces,
The heavens above
turned to gloom,
and cast their stares.

All that can be wished
is now long lost,
with bars and chains
holding you down
like no tomorrow.

Anger, raging,
spirits from within,
call forth the essence
of humanity
in a desperate prayer.

Corrupted to the core,
in time to become,
like stories of fallen heroes
in tough times,
except this ain't such a heroic tale.

And in these tough chains
and burning heat,
one day the beast
will rise and consume all
in its rampage of hate.

The beast who once was human,
then torn and broken
in soul and body,
placed in torment
till he was no longer anybody.

Be it curse or a twist of fate.
Shall there be a cure,
there still is no denial
of what has once become
of this man.

It all stems from the root,
where he has been
what he went through,
how he was treated,
in the deepest him.

Once a while he tries to claim death,
only to have a hesitation
whether that shall be the right way,
and gets bluffed to life
for yet another time.

Wishes to be claim,
blown and gone.
Its a selfish wish,
even he would look down upon,
without a second thought.

Looks easy it seems,
the quick escape it is.
Other exits looks barricaded and sealed.
However dark and shadows loom about,
this door still looks filled with light.

"No", once again he said,
"Not now", that's all he would add.
And he survives for another day,
in the chains without locks
and stings of heat.

Broken and defeated,
with torn wings,
the beast still looks to freedom,
that he believes would come one day,
though he knows its far away.

This is anger, this is pain, this is a vision of all in vain.
This is desperation, an act of destroyed wishes.
This is giving up, throwing away all of your dices.
This is what i do not understand, and wants nothing part of.
This is defeat, and bowing down to it.
This is me, my life and my sanity on fire.

Disease

Awake and taking a walk.
Head still filled with lots of thoughts.
I've seem to lost my sense of taste.
Along with my perception of time.
I've once experienced this,
not a stranger at all to me.
The retardation of the senses,
the feeling of being restless.
Its like a disease consuming you from within.
Never to be freed until you are purged clean.
Will i find a cure,
while i continue to be a stone.
Voided of emotions and pain.
Oh, what a tragic scene.
That I've lost the last possible way of feeling human,
while still maintaining very sober.

Inside and the Out

Long quiet thoughts on the inside.
All noisy on the outside.
There is a chill.
Which i personally feel.
Lots of conversations.
All became jibberish upon their fusion.
Writing is all I've left to do,
while i wait for time to undo.
I am waiting.
Waiting.

Messages Across the Airwave: 13th July

Is there a time and place,
where our words can speak,
not through mail and digi-bits.
Like we agreed
that it'll be true and frank,
before it falls into a disastrous plan.
May this be read,
and not avoided in dread.

Here comes the end of another series of writing.
Long time has words been so full of turmoils.
Compared to that from the black book,
which is more of a 'thinker',
these messages are more of a 'feeler'.

Messages Across the Airwave: 12th July -3

Tried to call,
your phone was off.
Are we not meant to talk,
or is it chances i've fell short?
Rather in poetry and mails,
I would want to hear you in real.
Though i know you'll prefer avoids things
than face what is really happening.
Just let me hear from you,
before time is due.
Have to add that your poetry,
has much amaze me.
Short span to time to write
or has it been in waiting till time has ripe?

That you would have wanted to say all these while...

Messages Across the Airwave: 12th July -2

At least glad,
the words you have since read.
But why an apology
when you don't have to say sorry?
There's no right nor wrong,
nothing has been done for.
Of cause I would wish for you to speak
and not leave me thinking deep.
Can we be truthful and frank to each other?
Before all is out in the timer.

Messages Across the Airwave: 12th July

Long wait.
But nothing's too late.
Time has taken akin to stopping.
While the clock still keeps on ticking.
Messages all sent out through the airwave.
Yet 'Empty' is all my inbox been left.
Did the postman lost his way,
or mails these days are all one way?
Demoralized but not giving up I am,
here's one more i'm trying to pen.
Another mail to the air,
and i reply i hope ___ will send.

P.s. Thanks

Messages Across the Airwave: 10th July

The rain is about to fall.
I see the dark clouds coming.
All gloomy and fluffy,
as i look from my office.

Sank my teeth into lunch
and a sip on my drink.
Still partially unfilled
and kept me thinking.

Of a lady,
who is always,
without a trace,
voided of news.
All I knew,
is probably
she's beneath the same sky,
on which i see the clouds flew.

Messages Across the Airwave: 8th July

A while there and here.
Feel that I'm facing,
the world's greatest riddle.
About getting,
your replies,
without becoming a pester.
Would you be so kind
to grant an answer,
and ease the torment
of thinking much further.

Messages Across the Airwave: 5th July

Working hard to know you more,
while you seem ever far away.

You are always out of reach,
I'm plodding hard to build a bridge.

Before you become out of sight,
and leaving me in a plight.

I have more to tell you in time,
maybe in more of verses and rhyme.

If you are willing and says its fine.

Messages Across the Airwave

A new series,
depicting a short season
of events and words,
across mobile.

Showing a glimpse
of difficulties
along the line of
communication.

Fill the bytes
with emotions,
thoughts and hope,
and send them out

From the Black Book: Old Story

I just can't imagine
it was a dream scene.

Was it the improvement of technology
that scale with humans
or did my dreams
moved away from technicolor.

No matter what,
it was about a ghost,
A young boy of four
who is trapped in an old school.
Then he found my cupboard
and makes a disturbance
from in there.
His story have already
been a history
by the time I was there.

And apparently
its been a long time
but no one knew his name
until i did.

This is the last of the series of "From the Black Book", a collection of writing that arose during my time in the force. Lots of jumbled and repetitive thoughts, but that's life in there.
A somewhat unexpected content as the ending entry. I almost forgot about this as well. And come to think of it, its really quite spooky.

From the Black Book: Today

There's much to think about today.
The thanks that brightens
someone's day.
The road and streets
all looking so familiar and different
after a year's break.
Writing daily to be a habit
only now then I get it,
the essence not in merely
putting down words
but the stimulation of the brain
telling it to work.

Once a while I wish
for a machine to record
what goes on in my head
for I find it a point to forget
shall I forget
to leave them down in form
But writing them provides
for another challenge
which often I'll drift to
other thoughts as I elaborate
and then forgetting half
of what was conceived
in that previous moments.

Maybe I should start writing
about places I've walked too
though they number few
what a shame...
might make me more alive
I'll say
Or start yet another
new project
which brings me to the fact
I have not complete any
of those sitting on my desk yet.

Three projects on stories,
a recollection of my being
and family
plus one that I mention here
that of my journey around life
and the world I stand.

Consider it too much
but there's no rush.
But alas, on the train I am
headed to another destination,
again.

From the Black Book: Gone

Another fallen,
gone and past.
Makes me ponder
about my own to come.
Would I leave crying
or as a champion
with achievements to boast.
Shall it be a silent hall
or in irony bustling
with life.
All I'll possibly be
is just a witness at best.

From the Black Book: Break

The little breaks
in between
keeps things from
going dull.

An intermission
a breather
a chance to do something else
a path to take you away.

However great it would seem
a break can still go bad
on some days.
But guess that is what
makes life
the element of surprises
like a magician
and his bags of tricks.

This break has been good.
Do not ask about accomplishments.
It it well worth
so long as you enjoy it.
That's all to vacations and their purpose.

When I wake up in the morning
either its a lament
at the end of the break
or I'll be thankful
to be back at work.

From the Black Book: 18th March with a Dream

Based on a nightmare I had which feels pretty much like "I am legend" but more towards the idea of warped humanity with less science or viruses involved.
It questions about survival, the purpose and criteria that makes us want to do so.
And look at the typical fate of a kind man. Either he gets a great repayment for his efforts or he will die trying to do more good. But one thing is for sure, he is never forgotten, by those he assisted, at least.
Then once again at human nature, the issue about trust among a group of strangers, how badly they would be affected by the outside circle, a chaotic one that is. In this sense, referring to the "What If", of someone becoming one of those they disapprove of.


Seriously looking back at this post. I can't make sense of it.
But its normal. Things do not make sense all the time.

From the Black Book: Survive

A group of survivors
found themselves
banded together
through the kindness
of a man who offered shelter.

A massacre was sparking
throughout the land,
the killings so much
the dead amounted
to a mountain.
In a simple sense,
a huge pile of bones
and bloodies flesh.

The murderers with
so much anger
without a single ounce
of mercy.
Soon that became the
personification of a demon
that is feeding on
an unholy crusade.

Food was scarce
and they started feeding
on what used to be
their kind.
If you consider
then less human now.
And did I forget to mention
the kind man was killed
while he tried to help
the survivors flee
from the incoming rampage
of the thirst blades.

They cuddle together in a bunker,
hearing the screams
coming through their dreams.
They lie in hiding
as the world continues
on its axis
and deterioration
of humanity and faith.

The demons would be
coming soon,
that is not all
they have to fear.
What is frightening
is a slaughtering
in their midst.
If what is above
is all but gone.
What is there
to survive for
when there is nothing
left of what you know.

From the Black Book: Perfectly Inspired

I took a break
from writing.
Seeking in the sanctuary
of excuses of the lack of time
or true inspirations.
Words and sentences
from many other thoughts.
Feeling regret at not
having pen and paper
by my side.
One thing broke this
interruption of a habit
I was building.

The crimson sky,
its redness
like a blanket
well covering the sight above
and even my window panes
were all tinted
with the crimson glow
that was gentle in every manner.

The clouds were layered
as though in sync
with the rising run.
It stretched far
beyond my sight.

For once, I felt so much
wanting to fly.
To go beyond the reach
of my little statue.
To bask and see entirely
the horizon in this shade.
The moment was perfect.
There was no other I saw.

From the Black Book: Two Men

Two person connected
by the threads of fate.

One who abandoned the world
and found his truth.

Other other who felt the world left him
and went in search of truth.

Remembering

Feels like the marine-time vet,
who is in Hawaii.
Spending time with a person,
who never remembers.

Each day,
a new attempt,
a new start,
but an unchanging goal.

Pulling from a bag
of tricks and ideas.
Attempts to get
a message across.

Even if it fails today,
there is still tomorrow.
All until when
there's no tomorrow to speak of.

When would that be?
How long would it be?
Are we getting close?
What is that sign?

It's tough
but I'll get through.
Because that is
what I really want to do.

Just wait,
one day you'll remember.
The important stuffs,
that will do.