tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-302706072024-03-06T23:42:07.123-08:00[I]nsanity & [I]nsomniaphilosophy for the confused, crap for the restShikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-63364152000172359482009-04-29T19:50:00.000-07:002009-04-29T20:02:17.549-07:00The View from the Afternoon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://fc00.deviantart.com/fs40/f/2009/020/5/1/The_Other_Side_by_AndyMumford.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://fc00.deviantart.com/fs40/f/2009/020/5/1/The_Other_Side_by_AndyMumford.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Four o' clock sharp<div>and a familiar fragrance</div><div>looms in the air as </div><div>i sit atop a parking garage</div><div>that overlooks this </div><div>blasphemous town</div><div>of plastic MILFs and </div><div>petty middle-class comforts. </div><div>but despite their mediocrity, </div><div>I wouldn't change a thing.</div><div>for on this summer eve, </div><div>I bask in the warm embrace</div><div>of that great gig in the sky</div><div>and surf through the arid winds </div><div>as I enjoy the view from the afternoon. </div><div><br /></div><div>I feel today a warm comfort </div><div>I have long yearned for</div><div>it seems at last the icy winds</div><div>of winter have parted</div><div>and dark skies </div><div>are replaced with infinite possibilities</div><div>no longer does the dragon roar</div><div>"THOU SHALT!" </div><div>for I have tamed my beast</div><div>now, the fierce lion</div><div>becomes a child.</div><div>free to create his own values</div><div>his own thousand truths,</div><div>by dawn</div><div>and the courage to destroy them</div><div>by dusk. </div><div><br /></div><div>High-Noon is upon us! </div><div>and we stand before</div><div>a sea of meaninglessness. </div><div>"who will part this sea?" </div><div>"to what skies will we look for guidance!?" </div><div>the pious fools will cry!</div><div>but the only sound will be lafter</div><div>as being continues it's endless dance</div><div>across endless skies</div><div>and I will be here,</div><div>still,</div><div>sparking up the evening's first smoke</div><div>as I enjoy the view from the afternoon.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-31391106048240871492009-04-29T19:35:00.000-07:002009-04-29T19:50:16.324-07:00A Gift that Comes and Goes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://th05.deviantart.com/fs29/300W/i/2008/075/3/8/humble_gift_by_marielliott.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 276px;" src="http://th05.deviantart.com/fs29/300W/i/2008/075/3/8/humble_gift_by_marielliott.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>It seems like today,<div>everyone's all gung-ho about</div><div>formulas: </div><div>there are formula's to make you better</div><div>formula's to fuck you up</div><div>formulas for success, </div><div>formula's for failure,</div><div>formulas for calculating how supremely</div><div>overweight you really are, </div><div>and even formulas to calculate how much </div><div>the government is allowed to steal from you, </div><div>and of course, how much you can steal </div><div>from the government. </div><div><br /></div><div>With all these numbers, </div><div>and everyone ejaculating to efficiency</div><div>it is not surprising that everyone goes</div><div>ape-shit whenever things </div><div>do not go </div><div>"according to plan" </div><div><br /></div><div>Despite persistant attempts to </div><div>"crack the code"</div><div>One thing remains </div><div>that these schemers haven't</div><div>found the formula for:</div><div>this thing?</div><div><br /></div><div>writing; </div><div>an art for only</div><div>patient souls </div><div>that aren't afraid to</div><div>stop and </div><div>live a little.</div><div><br /></div><div>this world is full of </div><div>Constipated Writers </div><div>who are so concerned with</div><div>their "formulas" and finding</div><div>their "BIG STORY!" </div><div>that they are afraid to be true</div><div>to themselves </div><div>on the blank white sheet</div><div>that lays before them. </div><div>the irony of the matter is,<br /></div><div>of course that,</div><div>everybody is </div><div>starving for</div><div>new shit. </div><div><br /></div><div>writing is a gift that is </div><div>only for those patient</div><div>enough to await it's return</div><div>and time wasted for</div><div>all of those materialistic</div><div>fucks, looking for</div><div>something to keep </div><div>for themselves</div><div>no, </div><div>writing is something</div><div>to be shared. </div><div><br /></div><div>if you do not write</div><div>because it is vital </div><div>to your survival,</div><div>do something else. </div><div><br /></div><div>if words do not bleed from</div><div>your pen in a torrent that </div><div>makes your writing hand ache </div><div>with the toils of beauty...</div><div>you're better off publishing. </div><div><br /></div><div>if you're writing for </div><div>somebody else, </div><div>don't do it. </div><div><br /></div><div>for some time now, I have felt</div><div>that I had "lost my mojo"...</div><div>but today I learn that </div><div>creativity strikes</div><div>when we least</div><div>expect </div><div>it.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-83731419298423206732009-04-29T17:46:00.001-07:002009-04-29T17:56:54.131-07:00A New Hope<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://th03.deviantart.com/fs15/300W/f/2007/024/f/9/A_new_Hope_by_petitescargot.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 392px;" src="http://th03.deviantart.com/fs15/300W/f/2007/024/f/9/A_new_Hope_by_petitescargot.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Despite what people look like<div>on the outside, </div><div>inside...</div><div>everyone's got their own</div><div>neurotic devil </div><div>or I do, at least</div><div>which is something</div><div>I know,</div><div>so I'll start with the facts: </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>FACT: life's a </div><div>bitch without</div><div>a god in the sky</div><div>to blame for your</div><div>every imperfection. </div><div><br /></div><div>but maybe that's because</div><div>we're always looking for</div><div>excuses:</div><div>if not god, then </div><div>that black cat or</div><div>the bergouise</div><div>or the government </div><div>or the biggest </div><div>baddest</div><div>Other</div><div>that overdetermines</div><div>our every </div><div>move. </div><div><br /></div><div>FACT: we are thrown</div><div>into this be-shitted world</div><div>without a who, or a why</div><div>or a even a morsel </div><div>of significance.</div><div><br /></div><div>there is no "being" </div><div>with a capital B</div><div>we start with </div><div>nothingness and upon</div><div>that Tabula Rasa, </div><div>shape ourselves in</div><div>a constant cycle of </div><div>becoming. </div><div>That is to say, </div><div>"existence precedes essence." </div><div><br /></div><div>Fact: each moment </div><div>is it's own decisive</div><div>fold. </div><div><br /></div><div>You and I are no </div><div>more than the collective</div><div>sum of our own actions </div><div>and experiences. </div><div>Every moment we are </div><div>faced with the grave </div><div>burden of "choice"</div><div>and every decision</div><div>holds a unique</div><div>opportunity cost</div><div>that will decide the</div><div>rest of our lives. </div><div><br /></div><div>some, </div><div>more than</div><div>others. </div><div><br /></div><div>I call this </div><div>hope, </div><div>Humanity:</div><div>my existential</div><div>neurosis.</div><div><br /></div><div>subjectivity</div><div>must be the</div><div>starting</div><div>point.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-67037489184497630852009-04-29T17:00:00.000-07:002009-04-29T17:44:23.264-07:00out of winter, came spring<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://fc05.deviantart.com/fs16/f/2007/216/e/9/you_can_find_love____by_roseonthegrey.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 350px;" src="http://fc05.deviantart.com/fs16/f/2007/216/e/9/you_can_find_love____by_roseonthegrey.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>On this cold<div>spring Texas</div><div>day, I realize </div><div>this: </div><div>"The world is full </div><div>of glorious</div><div>surprises" </div><div><br /></div><div>And I don't mean </div><div>this, in the banal </div><div>sense </div><div>of a newborn baby</div><div>or a "second chance" at life, </div><div>no</div><div>I'm talking more about:</div><div>dirty words in alphabet soup</div><div>or getting a pink slip for</div><div>"not subbordinating</div><div>to authority" </div><div>ora winter day in a </div><div>summer-stained week</div><div>whose frigid winds</div><div>lifts you back,</div><div>back, back. </div><div>to a time of innocence</div><div>it's briskly touch </div><div>re-teaches the lessons</div><div>you forgot: </div><div>"You and I, we </div><div>live for the struggle</div><div>the revolution is born out of</div><div>imminent resistance </div><div>to a system that</div><div>has long-commodified</div><div>our desires</div><div>yes, </div><div>we are sustained </div><div>by our opposite."</div><div><br /></div><div>Ask yourself:</div><div>what is an anarchist</div><div>without the state? </div><div>what is a rebel</div><div>without a cause? </div><div>what is an anti-capitalist</div><div>without capitalism? </div><div><br /></div><div>Happy?</div><div>far from it</div><div>our collectivist identity</div><div>in the political order</div><div>is formed via a strategy</div><div>of resistance </div><div>to a given social order</div><div>or yet another faction. </div><div><br /></div><div>but what does this mean</div><div>for you and I? </div><div>that we live for the struggle</div><div>that there is beauty </div><div>in the feeling </div><div>of overcoming </div><div>obstacles</div><div>and loving every </div><div>minute of it</div><div><br /></div><div>there is a kernel of truth</div><div>even within a fluid</div><div>subjectivity. </div><div>'nuff said. <br /></div><div><br /></div>Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-45953825490870002602009-04-29T16:32:00.000-07:002009-04-29T17:00:19.597-07:00Thus Spake Shikhar<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://fc00.deviantart.com/fs21/f/2007/273/6/0/Thus_Spoke_Zarathustra_by_ShineLikeFireflies.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 500px;" src="http://fc00.deviantart.com/fs21/f/2007/273/6/0/Thus_Spoke_Zarathustra_by_ShineLikeFireflies.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Some environmentalists will tell you otherwise, <div>but the world actually enjoys taking a <div><div>heaping hot shit on us</div><div>(metaphysically speaking, of course)</div><div>but certainly the environment </div><div>the sickly anesthetized coordinates</div><div>that each and everyone </div><div>of us are locked in to </div><div>Days come, and Nights go</div><div>and surely the fool with the banjo </div><div>still plays. </div><div>but it feels we are all marching</div><div>to someone else's rhythm. </div><div>to where? </div><div>I don't really know</div><div>or have any desire to know</div><div>the answer </div><div>but one thing is for certain</div><div>this boat is drifting </div><div>in a direction i am </div><div>ashamed to call</div><div>progress. </div><div><br /></div><div>Our search for truth</div><div>prompted the sin</div><div>to end all sins</div><div>surely the universe breathed</div><div>a new breath </div><div>as we pointed our missiles</div><div>into the air</div><div>and shot our old god</div><div>the fuck out of that sky </div><div>and danced a joyous dance</div><div>in the pool of his blood</div><div>brave we were, </div><div>but that was then...</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, </div><div>we suffer the depths</div><div>of nothingness,</div><div>and deathly touch</div><div>of nihilism</div><div>and everybody just</div><div>wants to get </div><div>a little</div><div>fucked up</div><div><br /></div><div>So when the world takes a </div><div>shit, a heaping </div><div>steaming shit on us</div><div>we arbitrarily search </div><div>for a who?, a why?</div><div>begging our savior in the sky</div><div>for answers to questions </div><div>who's only true answer</div><div>a mirror can reveal</div><div>we search for a scapegoat and a sin</div><div>more importantly </div><div>a substance: </div><div>white junk, green junk, brown junk or crystal junk</div><div>it's all the same</div><div>a means of escaping </div><div>a world we're sure </div><div>we despise </div><div>but can we really blame </div><div>ourselves? </div><div>after all</div><div>we're only</div><div>"human, all too human" </div><div><br /></div><div>Humanity needs </div><div>someone to justify </div><div>it's existence. </div><div>a creator of meaning </div><div>and a destroyer of values</div><div>with skepticism and brute honesty</div><div>to fight the good fight</div><div><br /></div><div>my thoughts?</div><div>who better </div><div>than a</div><div>poet! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-10936696369650350162009-02-13T13:31:00.000-08:002009-02-13T13:39:54.723-08:00Nameless, Faceless Fucks!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://fc11.deviantart.com/fs36/f/2008/274/8/4/Forgive_me_my_weakness_by_Veroniques.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 345px;" src="http://fc11.deviantart.com/fs36/f/2008/274/8/4/Forgive_me_my_weakness_by_Veroniques.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The world is filled<br />with so many people<br />who are true to nothing<br />especially themselves.<br /><br />the who-whats and<br />when-wheres that cruise<br />from crisis to crisis<br />pointless and all,<br />never stopping<br />to smell the fresh morning<br />roses or look into<br />the mirror and create<br />their thousand truths<br />their goods<br />their evils<br />and destroy them with<br />every night.<br /><br />Yes, we march and<br />march and march<br />to someone else's<br />heartbeat<br />someone else's<br />drum.<br /><br />These people resign from<br />life.<br />they retire, before ever<br />experiencing what life really<br />has to offer<br />for these people I<br />have no words,<br />for they have already given up<br />on themselves.<br />But for you,<br />young poet - young reader<br />or boxer, or lawyer<br />I can only give you<br />my blessings<br />for in your hands is the fate<br />of this filthy race<br />we call<br />humanity.<br /><br />Live your life fully<br />and each day like your<br />last.<br />look away from<br />the preachers<br />of death,<br />child:<br />There's beauty in the struggle.Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-27544322048521253742009-02-13T13:24:00.000-08:002009-02-13T13:31:04.888-08:00My Golden CrutchI want to pause the poetry to take a second to reflect on my self and my own growth and downfall over the past few years and more importantly the past few days.<br /><br />I was always a restless soul, even before I met laura. Always concerned, or overconcerned about my identity, my place in this broken puzzle I came to call the world. Always searching fort he answer, I found myself trying new things. I was never satisfied with what I had so I kept searching for the next distraction, the next platform to take my chance with life and learn something new. <br />Rollerblading, BMX Biking, skateboarding, band football, philosophy, and debate<br />it was all the same.<br />another crutch, another quick fix another shot of existence that made me feel warm inside - Like morphine on a winter night. My passion was living and my canvas was life. And now, only now have I found my true freedom, my calling my skill and my destiny.<br />and my paintbrush, most of all<br />for now there is life in all of my writing<br />poetry has set me free<br />from my worthlessness<br />for now I write with my blood!<br />instead of etching with pointless utencils<br />--the most impersonal of all expressions.<br /><br />I do not think I could appreciate<br />anything more than I do now.<br />A cold winter night,<br />a warm cup of joe<br />and a pen with which I write<br />my own<br />destiny.<br /><br />"now do I fly<br />now am I light<br />now ther danceth a god in me!"Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-49969072335725327922009-02-13T13:03:00.000-08:002009-02-13T13:10:04.590-08:00Beautiful Stranger<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://th06.deviantart.com/fs24/300W/f/2008/026/7/c/Kiwi_by_Freq245.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 253px;" src="http://th06.deviantart.com/fs24/300W/f/2008/026/7/c/Kiwi_by_Freq245.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />There is a woman<br />who sits across the pond<br />from me now<br />golden brown skin<br />and lustrous black hair<br />she's in her<br />mid twenties,<br />maybe<br />she looks like a marry or<br />a monica or a lisa<br />maybe<br />and she carries a black camera<br />with her wherever she goes<br />snapping pictures of her young glory<br />she sits atop a rock<br />and calls to her young warrior-<br />"antale chico!"<br />and I think<br />maybe she's more<br />of a maria, or gabriella!<br /><br />either way she's beautiful<br />and so is her daughter of three.<br />or four, but certainly no more<br />and there's comfort in the fact<br />that she'll never read<br />much less,<br />know<br />that she made<br />my fucking<br />day.Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-4488254879175282192009-02-13T12:47:00.000-08:002009-02-13T13:01:59.806-08:0039 Cents of Gold<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://th09.deviantart.com/fs17/300W/i/2007/137/5/2/what_about_capitalism_bw_by_guewenyhar.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 451px;" src="http://th09.deviantart.com/fs17/300W/i/2007/137/5/2/what_about_capitalism_bw_by_guewenyhar.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />It seems like today,<br />everybody wants all the<br />best shit<br />sports cars with the leather interior,<br />gormet lobsters served<br />(on top of) $70 Salisbury Steak<br />Private pre-schools and<br />even more exclusive colleges<br />the most expensive whiskey<br />foreign cigarettes<br />and homes that sit atop<br />hills of (black)gold<br />with a million<br />and one<br />bathrooms.<br /><br />Those people are lost<br />and incapable of making decisions<br />not calculable in<br />dollar bills:<br />Fuck Them.<br /><br />Little do they know<br />about life,<br />about living<br />about schwag on a sunday morning<br />or $4 champagne or Marlborough Red's<br />let them have their expensive ass cake<br />and eat it too<br />while you sit on your hill<br />that looks like all the others<br />appreciating the finer things<br />life has to offer.<br /><br />I bought a nice journal<br />or stole it, or something.<br />and not a single beautiful poem,<br />or thought, or dream<br />came out<br />there was just too much<br />pressure to be perfect<br />it weighed down my writing hand<br /><br />but only now do I know:<br /><br />that I have never been<br />happier with my 39 cent<br />spiral.<br />AND<br />that perhaps,<br />we define the<br />finer things in life<br />for ourselves.<br /><br />Fuck the Big Other.Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-40188706224248814602009-02-13T12:43:00.000-08:002009-02-13T12:47:36.855-08:00write like your sanity depends on itI absolutely love the idea of using poetry<br />as an outlet. like I've always said-<br />"it's good to get all the crazy out of your system"<br /><br />without further ado,<br />"a frustrated tirade"<br /><br />God damn I feel so fucking worthless<br />worthless worthless<br />my stomach hurts and so does my<br />heart<br />it's all broken, fried, mishandeled, and<br />black<br />like that bitter whore on the corner<br />fuck<br />these moments of sheer lack<br />of creativity<br />of escape<br />of death<br />of every part of me that makes me,<br />me<br />make me want to die die die<br />I do not know who I am<br />I do not know who you are<br />or who any of these people are<br />for that matter<br />we're all just faceless, nameless<br />fucks<br />fighting with each other<br />for a little piece of<br />american pie.<br /><br />shit, fuck the gold, fuck the glory<br />and fuck god for that matter,<br />I just need a stranger<br />a friend<br />a lover and<br />a poet<br />to stand here with me<br />and watch this city burn<br />like the fire that rages<br />inside me.Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-80299561980769425242009-02-13T12:32:00.001-08:002009-02-13T12:42:42.410-08:00Mundane Morning<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://fc55.deviantart.com/fs9/i/2006/048/0/d/I__m_crying_every_Monday_by_crystalwrists.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 458px; height: 319px;" src="http://fc55.deviantart.com/fs9/i/2006/048/0/d/I__m_crying_every_Monday_by_crystalwrists.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />7:00 Sharp<br />and not a moment later<br />is when the morning starts<br />when that alarm goes off ringin'<br />and the sounds of Mufasa,<br />our departed king<br />permeate the air.<br />of course,<br />that's also when<br />the war starts<br /><br />between me,<br />and myself<br />the subconceous<br />and the real<br /><br />it's fierce combat, really<br />-when the world wants you<br />to do something<br />you feel anxious,<br />surrounded; afraid<br />and under the pressure<br />of the whole fucking<br />world<br />like the nazis<br />in the final hours<br />of 1946.<br /><br />sure, i manage<br />to hold on a little longer<br />fifteen, thirty sometimes<br />fourty-five<br />miniutes.<br /><br />depending on how many times<br />I hit that<br />snooze button<br />but that doesn't stop<br />the morning air<br />from receiving my presence.<br /><br />I wake up,<br />eventually<br />and stare upon this fucking<br />world I feel,<br />I can never love<br />my stomach - restless<br />from last nights<br />cigarette and coffee<br />binge<br /><br />then I wonder,<br />as I take my first sip<br />of morning joe<br />and my first sip of<br />death:<br />"why did I even<br />bother waking up<br />on this god fucksaken<br />mundane morning?"<br /><br />but there is never an answer<br />I guess every morning<br />is a mundane morning<br />without a god in the sky<br />or an angels face to<br />wake up to.<br />maybe she could<br />show me<br />meaning.Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-3128645826262080782009-01-25T19:00:00.000-08:002009-01-25T19:44:37.770-08:00BreakSo, i've taken a small break from the poetry; debate's been eating my time like a fat kid at Cici's... on the way home from atlanta, I managed to write ... something. I'm not sure whether it's poetry, prose, a reflective essay or a story, but shit i've never been big on labels.<br /><br />without furthe ado:<br /><br />I have grown terribly dissatisfied with my life, I am not who I used to be – anymore. No, something has happened to me – I feel lost, trapped and ever so fucking alone and I just want everything and everyone to be still still still. I know, I know, I have so much to live for, such a rich fulfilling life ahead of me – the only problem is – I see the future, I see my destiny – as I peer into the crystal ball of modernity, I am disheartened by the direction my boat is drifting.<br /><br />Highschool, College, a Masters degree then work, work, work – until I’m a useless old fart and can’t tell the difference between living and existing. That’s what this world wants for us all, an anesthetized life – free from pain and strife: we all dream of that same place – whether you call it Oklahoma or your lover’s arms, we’re all looking for a place where everything is predictable and nothing hurts. We sail and cruise and drive through existence looking for a who, a why, a god and a how, but never do we find the answers to our petty questions, we sail and drive and cruise to someone else’s rhythm, in a direction I’m ashamed to call “progress.”<br /><br />False are the idols of modernity, false are the amenities of a comfortable middle-class existence. We bust our balls to maintain the petty comforts of our lives without realizing that it is ourselves that we are slowly murdering. The house, the cars, the money, the girls – shit I’d trade it all for a taste of the real – a taste of every beautiful flavor life has to offer. But there is some repentance in it all, for I’m afraid although I see beyond the shimmering idols of modernity, I am a weak man. As much as I want escape, as much as I want to live, my weakness leaves me trapped like a butterfly caught in the tarantulas den, or an autumn leaf lost in winter winds – out of place, out of control, and increasingly – out of my fucking mind.<br /><br />I don’t know what it is about me, or what’s been going on lately – everyone and everything in my life is confusing the fuck out of me, I am coming to what feels like a stand-still in my quest for meaning and I’m afraid I’m falling falling falling into darkness, into nothingness. I’m lonely, confused, and thirsty for the first drop of love, of life, of whatever is to come, but if there’s one thing I do know it is this: I have grown too full for this small cup of existence, I can no longer call this place home and for quite some time I have not been able to recognize these familiar faces - I need change that doesn’t jingle in my pockets.<br /><br />I am looking for a friend, but surely in all the wrong places – I cannot find it here. This place is cold and all of the color is gone - the land is black and the clouds overhead are gray with the tears of god. But I cope, I live, I fight the good fight; Hoping that somewhere, there is someone in the world as lost confused and meaningless as myself.Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-4604234605118993212009-01-14T13:04:00.000-08:002009-01-16T09:16:42.671-08:00Nowhere & Nothingness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://fc03.deviantart.com/fs33/f/2008/310/3/c/Stop_Means_Don__t_Go_by_BluddLust.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 470px; height: 352px;" src="http://fc03.deviantart.com/fs33/f/2008/310/3/c/Stop_Means_Don__t_Go_by_BluddLust.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />as i stop at that<br />worn old stoplight<br />at the corner<br />of nowhere and nothingness<br />and take a long drag<br />of that burning red death-stick<br />ironically called life,<br />I turn to my left<br />and then to my right.<br />then realize this:<br /><br />I have something in common<br />with these broken<br />heartless<br />fucks<br />who stop aside me<br />on the left, or the right<br />it didn’t really matter<br />there was no gradient here<br />at this broken<br />fucking<br />stop light<p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">that here,<br />at eleven thirty<br />on a Sunday evening<br />we were all in similar places<br />in this endless journey<br />we call life<br />we were all<br />sleepy, restless<br />and miserable<br />fucking souls<br />racing our metal extensions<br />into night<br />into destruction<br />into destiny<br />none of us really expected<br />to see<br /><br />tomorrow. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Some racing<br />to a broken fucking<br />place that<br />someone decided to call “home”<br />hell, it was them -<br />at some point or the other<br />but now,<br />now these people knew<br />hell, even their deceased mothers knew<br />that this was just another place<br />like any other<br />to rest their broken little<br />heads, on broken fucking<br />nights<br />the ironic part was,<br />that every night was<br />broken<br />we knew nothing of<br />the happiness of a goodnights sleep </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Some were racing to<br />their end<br />following an endless road<br />looking for their checkered flags,<br />or crystal meth, or some black<br />tar – anything, really that keep their<br />hearts going bump through the night<br />it was really all one in the same;<br />and they knew it too,<br />that sooner or later,<br />they’d be too tired of racing through<br />these broken streets<br />wishing, hoping<br />dreaming<br />of the night they would hear their<br />little metal extentions screech<br />to a final stop<br />because they knew their hearts would soon follow<br />and death would dance<br />to the sound of twisted metal<br />and broken fucking<br />bones<br /><br />Others were racing<br />to their night job<br />wishing, hoping<br />dreaming<br />that the supervisor wouldn’t<br />notice he was late<br />fearing that day<br />that he would have to turn<br />to his wife<br />his children<br />his parents<br />and tell them that this was the end<br />that this was the day<br />their comfortable lives<br />came to a screeching fucking halt<br />and they would be poor,<br />empty, and oh so fucking<br />broken<br />like last Tuesdays garbage<br />or the newborn waiting in the dumpster<br />for a mother<br />someone else’s problem, now<br />left to face that cold world, alone<br />and isolated<br />without a soul in the world<br />to care, just care<br />fate wrote death on their<br />gritty warn palms,<br />and destiny,<br /><span style=""> </span>was a bastard. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Me?<br />frankly, I felt<br />This corner simply wasn’t enough<br />I was racing into nowhere<br />into nothingness<br />we all were, in a sense.<br />but me,<br />I had no destination<br />I was racing<br />to the sound of my own heartbeat<br />until my little metal extention morphed<br />into the little engine that couldn’t<br />wishing, hoping<br />dreaming<br />that this rock was flat<br />and I would fall<br />off the edge of the earth<br />into nothingness,<br />Into nowhere,<br />before that needle hit the red. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">But everything<br />remained the same<br />we were all running<br />from something we all knew<br />at heart,<br />we could never escape<br />not even on Nietzsche’s birthday<br /><br />but surely,<br />That didn’t stop us<br />cuz’ that broken old stoplight turned<br />green<br />and we put the pedal to the metal<br />and the sound of<br />tires burning and<br />engines roaring<br />permuted the air<br />and death<br />also lingered<br /><br />we were cold,<br />and tired,<br />and broken.<br />fucking broken<br />and we were all racing away<br />from our own<br />reflections</p>Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-58049122577979654402009-01-13T14:12:00.000-08:002009-01-16T09:17:44.902-08:00Fatal Science<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://fc93.deviantart.com/fs30/i/2008/172/2/1/Nuclear_Weapon_by_YellowMouse.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 569px; height: 198px;" src="http://fc93.deviantart.com/fs30/i/2008/172/2/1/Nuclear_Weapon_by_YellowMouse.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Never before have I seen<br />a race<br />so arrogant and<br />snotty<br />as to hold the power<br />to destroy themselves,<br />their unborn children<br />their pets<br />hell, even rip mother earth<br />a new one!<br />and be as bold<br />as to look god strait in the eye<br />and promise that this,<br />this nightmare<br />was really for<br />world peace<br /><br />this was, of course<br />the biggest joke of the twenty first century:<br />"technology,<br />was the <span style="font-style: italic;">solution </span>to<br />all of mans problems"<br />we built and built<br />and built<br />-- Machines, Factories,<br />Prisons, Schools,<br />Trains, Airplanes, Cars<br />and of course, motors<br />to run those trains, airplanes and cars.<br /><br />"Stronger, Faster, More Efficient!"<br />this was modernity's mantra<br />growth was no longer an option,<br />it was a condition of life.<br />"by whatever means necessary"<br />we thought,<br />as we raced to our death beds<br />sure, the trains were on time<br />but overnight<br />we had death camps,<br />biological warfare<br />and an arms race.<br />everyone was finally ready<br />to fall asleep for the very last time.<br /><br />Shit,<br />we can't blame them<br />how were they supposed to know?<br />that those motors<br />would propel trains<br />with people, or less than people aboard<br />to their final demise<br />but nevertheless,<br />on time.<br /><br />with the same science<br />that created that wretched bomb'<br />we aimed those missles into the sky<br />and fired<br />fired fired!<br />blowing our own savior<br />right out of that fucking sky<br />God was dead,<br />and we had killed him.<br /><br />what waters could we turn to<br />to clense our hands<br />of the sin to end all sins,<br />the murderers of all murderers.<br /><br />"what festivals of attonement<br />would we invent now?"<br />they called to the heavens,<br />but no one answered,<br />so they built offerings to the gods<br />iPods and Attombombs<br />Trains and Deathcamps<br />Cars and Resource Wars<br />Sex and Sexually Transmitted Diseases<br />this was our festival<br />but their holy water remained wine<br />or crown n' coke for that matter,<br />for science was their new god<br />their new idol<br />and there, that night<br />in the shadow of their befallen god<br />everyboddy just wanted to get a little fucked up<br />because there was no<br />fucking reason<br />to live<br />any other way.<br /><br />we had already built our own coffins,<br />and now there was only time for one last puff<br />of our final death stick<br />as we drowned ourselves<br />in the blood<br />of our new<br />god.Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-18065194081971756482009-01-12T20:20:00.000-08:002009-01-12T20:26:50.188-08:00A Softer World<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.asofterworld.com/clean/slingshots.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 720px; height: 275px;" src="http://www.asofterworld.com/clean/slingshots.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />This world needs more people like us:<br />Poets,<br />Writers,<br />Idealists,<br />Dreamers, <br />Artists,<br />and Artisans<br />maybe then, <br />we could paint beautiful wars;<br />with epic beginnings and tragic endings<br />instead of waging wars<br />with greedy beginnings<br />and no endings<br />at all.</span>Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-47160718476784465092009-01-12T19:39:00.000-08:002009-01-13T14:33:43.598-08:00a knock but no answer<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://th00.deviantart.com/fs40/300W/f/2009/013/6/8/O_by_P0RG.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://th00.deviantart.com/fs40/300W/f/2009/013/6/8/O_by_P0RG.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Black, Dark<div>frigid</div><div>endless </div><div>nights</div><div>is all that he knows</div><div>no sunshine in these eyes</div><div>only darkness</div><div>and pain</div><div>oh so fucking grusome </div><div>pain</div><div>of a life not</div><div>worth living</div><div><br /></div><div>the children pointed</div><div>at that courpse, </div><div>that empty sick fucker</div><div>"the passive nihilist"</div><div>they called him</div><div>others called him weakness</div><div>or dispair</div><div>or "that empty, sick fucker"</div><div>whatever the lable, </div><div>he was scoffed at </div><div>by that race </div><div>of beautiful men</div><div>and brawny women</div><div><br /></div><div>no meaning</div><div>no direction</div><div>there was onthing in </div><div>that lifeless mind</div><div>only a passive existence</div><div>day in and day out</div><div>chasing away death </div><div>only to wollow in his filth</div><div>for one more mediocre day</div><div>and for what?</div><div>this man, </div><div>was existing</div><div>(if you could even call it that)</div><div>for the sake of breathing</div><div>but, the irony of it all</div><div>was that every breath</div><div>was as meaningless as the last</div><div>yes,</div><div>dark, dreary and </div><div>oh so fucking cold </div><div>nights</div><div>were all this man knew.</div><div><br /></div><div>Although meaning still bled </div><div>from the people who scoffed at this man</div><div>this meaning was not their own</div><div>they bled false blood</div><div>of christ</div><div>and were able to exist</div><div>with that false blood</div><div>and little </div><div>more</div><div><br /></div><div>There's irony in this whole mess</div><div>that only a man of the highest virtue could understand</div><div>and this was that these people too</div><div>would suffer the same fate</div><div>of that sick, poor</div><div>fuck they scoffed at</div><div>sooner than later</div><div>nihilism would be at their door</div><div>black skies</div><div>hopelessness</div><div>and total despair</div><div>was the inevitable consequence</div><div>of the human condition.</div><div>"we must pay for having been christians </div><div>for two thousand years!"</div><div>the fletchers would cry</div><div>as they whipped their sinful spines</div><div><br /></div><div>And I</div><div>I only laughed</div><div>at those poor sick </div><div>fucks</div><div>who knew not how to create for themselves</div><div>as I charred up the first cigarette of the night</div><div>I laughed</div><div>becuase I knew</div><div>there was not a thing</div><div>you, me, </div><div>god or the moon</div><div>could do</div><div>about it</div><div><br /></div><div>Nihilism was at our door. </div>Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-71882749277161665972009-01-12T11:03:00.000-08:002009-01-13T14:34:39.799-08:00Your Awakening<div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://fc62.deviantart.com/fs10/i/2006/138/8/8/Crash_II_by_weasel35.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 452px; height: 203px;" src="http://fc62.deviantart.com/fs10/i/2006/138/8/8/Crash_II_by_weasel35.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br />This is for you,<br />my dear friend with<br />two crutches<br />or four, or a million<br />for that matter<br /><br />"at least, at least"<br />they say,<br />"this is all that happened!<br />you could be in a coma<br />or a vegetable<br />or dead<br />or a million pieces!"<br />(right now)<br /><br />you hear their comfortable lies<br />but there's a hint of truth to it<br />this is <span style="font-weight: bold;">all</span> that happened<br />they do not see, simply can't see<br />all that you've lost<br />your independence<br />your freedom<br />your sweet ride<br />that you drove senselessly<br />into the night<br />searching for a who, a why,<br />a god,<br />and a friend<br />who was just as lost in lifes torrent<br />as you were<br />(or are,<br />I really don't know the answer.)<br /><br />Fuck,<br />that never stopped you though<br />you didn't want that answer in the first place!<br />the mistry and misery of life was enough<br />to satisfy your thirst<br />for life,<br />for existential experience.<br /><br />through the highs and lows,<br />you wanted it all<br />"to smoke weed on the goldengate bridge"<br />"to drive on the wrong side of the road"<br />your plan, to live life on the edge<br />"so it goes" you'd say,<br />laughing in the face of destruction<br />as you watched the city burn,<br />you lit a cigarette,<br />or two.<br />Captivated by your disasterous charm,<br />infamous smile, and your<br />rough palms and plush lips<br />tainted with smoke<br />and a love lost.<br />"you wanted it all,"<br />I thought<br />"through the highs, and the<br /> lows."<br /><br />Unfortunately,<br />we can't always get what we want<br />Fate has a poor sense of humor,<br />but that's how it chose to play it's hand<br />there's no deed that we may seperate from the doer<br />no subject from its predicate,<br />no predicate from it's clause,<br />no subject from infinite possibilities.<br />The irony of the matter is,<br />that you weren't the person<br />driving on the wrong side of the road<br />you were just another old joe,<br />or jane,<br />or natalie,<br />for that matter<br />not knowing what destiny had written<br />on those gritty warn palms<br />of yours.<br /><br />But in your moment of truth<br />there was not a whisper<br />much less, laughter<br />as the truck smashed into your<br />sweet ride<br />there was onlyt eh sound of crushing bones<br />and twisted metal<br />as the stench of carnage permuted the air<br />the stench of death, also lingered<br />thank god, thank heavens<br />(or the spaghetti monster,<br />for that matter)<br />that that wasn't your stench,<br />your last night,<br />your final cruise through existence.<br />your fire burnt strong,<br />as they lifted your worn body into the ambulance<br />and ripped off your clothes<br />on that dark,<br />December night.<br /><br />Sadly that is,<br />that is,<br />how fate played it's hand<br />you wanted it all<br />and your prayers were answered<br />there's nothing you could have odne differently<br />nothing that could stop<br />destiny from taking it's course,<br />no deed that could be seperated from the doer<br />no subject from it's predicate.<br />it was done<br />now,<br />now there's simply not time<br />for "what ifs" and "if onlys"<br />only you, and your crutches<br />and a will to fight<br />that I hope you haven't lost<br />that spark, that twinkle<br />in your amber brown eyes<br />that kept me up to all hours of the night.<br /><br />I do not understand<br />I don't<br />what it means to be you<br />your crutches, I will never hold<br />but I do know what it is to have crutches<br />hopes, dreams and thoughts,<br />substances.<br />that we rely on,<br />and hold closer<br />than life itself<br />because it's that<br />damn<br />precious.<br /><br />Sure, it's not fair<br />"why you, why me<br />why any of us for that matter?"<br />because that is how this moment was structured.<br />there is no subject that can be seperated from it's predicate<br />no deed from it's doer<br />no predicate from it's clause.<br />only you, me,<br />and millions of other nobodies<br />clinging to their crutches<br />fighting for just<br />one more<br />breadth.<br /><br />I don't make very many promises<br />but I'm a man of my word<br />If you never know again<br />how to jump, bike and play<br />that there will be room<br />on my picnic blanket<br />in some park<br />at the corner of nowhere and nothingness<br />that we can watch children do<br />what children do best<br />and leave the rest to fate.Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-82420934395968254362009-01-12T10:42:00.000-08:002009-01-13T14:35:14.079-08:00Honest Men are Cheats<div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://fc49.deviantart.com/fs5/i/2005/120/0/6/Nietzsche_by_RoseSelavy.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 356px;" src="http://fc49.deviantart.com/fs5/i/2005/120/0/6/Nietzsche_by_RoseSelavy.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br />On winter days,<br />even at the heart of the gulf of Texas;<br />Sugar Land, Texas<br />to be exact<br />my mother always told me to<br />stay inside<br />where it was warm and safe<br />where the bitter cold,<br />or the murderers or the rapists<br />or life<br />couldn't hurt me.<br /><br />but I knew better<br />than to listen to her words,<br />of caution, of reproach<br />rather,<br />she had taught me better.<br /><br />I am an honest man,<br />or at least I'd like to think so<br />I am not ashamed of giving credit<br />where it is due.<br /><br />But who wouldn't?<br />(like to think they were honest men, that is)<br />the murderers? the rapists?<br />surely they had mothers too<br />who had nurtured them<br />taught them the virtues of an honest man<br />surely, they were honest men too<br />at least<br />some of<br />the time<br /><br />this was this,<br />and that was that<br />until one day<br />I met a man with a burley black mustache<br />the most honest of men, perhaps<br />who showed me what a lie I was living!<br />he knew nothing of this "honesty"<br />i spoke of<br />but seemingly knew all there was to know about men;<br />and women I suppose -<br />this man, and his black burley mustache<br />showed me this was that<br />and this, was<br />nothing at all.<br /><br />there are some that take pleasure in being<br />what they think, is an "honest man"<br />spending their entire lives<br />inside<br />next to their mothers,<br />where the cold or the rapists<br />or the murderers<br />or life<br />can't hurt them.<br />and they are honest men, too.<br />for what do they know?<br />(that with every day, every step<br />every breath of their comfortable<br />petty lives, they are lying)<br /><br />To themselves.<br /><br />And this profound conclusion<br />was made possible by that man<br />with the burley black mustache<br />whom I met on the philosophy shelf<br />at a bookstore no one has ever heard of<br />at the corner of nowhere<br />and nothingness.<br />It took a man of real honesty<br />to show me<br />that my only mother was fate<br />and it was my destiny to remain<br />forever by her side -<br />no matter where I went,<br />what I did<br />and what women I slept with.<br /><br />Now I see<br />my mother taught me<br />how to be an honest man<br /><br />Sure, I steal sometimes<br />and lie even more often<br />and swear wilder than the<br />rowdiest of cowboys-turned sailors<br />I am an honest man,<br />(to myself, at least)<br /><br />Some men, who claim to be honest.<br />Also claim we need more compassion<br />more love, more humanity<br />more Jesus<br />and less aboritions<br />but in my honest opinion,<br />all this world really needs<br />is a few more honest men<br />with<br />burley<br />black<br />mustachesShikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-85004373057564036482009-01-03T14:48:00.000-08:002009-01-13T14:38:50.621-08:0018th & West Alabama<div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://fc40.deviantart.com/images3/i/2005/144/9/2/Dead_Prostitute_I_by_G_i_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 204px;" src="http://fc40.deviantart.com/images3/i/2005/144/9/2/Dead_Prostitute_I_by_G_i_n.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Her fingers are nimble<br />and her eyes, deep and soulful<br />like the california sunset -- Amber Brown<br />Her beautiful figure could fool a guy<br />or two, or three or five<br />but underneath her shimmering<br />cover-girl lips and charcoaled framed amber eyes<br />lies the scar tissue<br /><br />she wears her heart on her sleeve,<br />"You're only young once..." she thinks<br />but under it all, she knows this man, or any other<br />can't fill the lack of friendship; of love<br />of seeing beyond that<br />figure-eight body;<br />or amber eyes, or covergirl lips<br />but the spirit of gravity<br />cannot choke this flower...<br />from dreaming:<br />of a quaint home<br />where she can raise her new born baby girl<br />or a man to sweep her off her feet<br />care for her, just like daddy used to...<br />before the accident.<br /><br />"One more night" she thinks...<br />for the thousanth<br />And oneth time,<br />as she gets in the car<br />where a horny businessman thinks:<br />"tonight's going to be a night to remember"<br /></div>Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-80556677103142149352009-01-03T14:46:00.000-08:002009-01-12T15:26:36.050-08:00Fuck you, Cupid<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://th07.deviantart.com/fs25/300W/i/2008/042/f/b/Cupid_by_gepecto.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 212px;" src="http://th07.deviantart.com/fs25/300W/i/2008/042/f/b/Cupid_by_gepecto.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br /><br />You are the god of love, </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />but the assasin of friendship</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />I hate your guts, you fucker </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />but I like your style</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br /><br />I was only thirteen<br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">thir-teen</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />when I met that</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />brown-eyed mess</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />that beautiful goddess</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />or infamous tramp</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />depending on who you ask</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />or rather, when you ask it</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br /><br />It scares me though, it does</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />that she could be both a creator,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />my brown eyed goddess;</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />and a destroyer,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />that, infamous bitch;</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />in the eyes of the same lover</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />although, a lover</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />no more<br /><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">fuck you cupid, </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />for letting your dogs loose</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />on the best friend I could ever ask for;</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />but if I could do it all over again</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />I wouldn't have it any other way</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />because that is how</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br />this moment was shaped. </span></span></span></div>Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-44575294715668580182009-01-03T14:43:00.000-08:002009-01-12T15:26:45.831-08:00Please don’t tell me now<div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://fc17.deviantart.com/fs9/i/2006/048/0/0/Cupid__s_Demise___Silence_by_MrMotts.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 338px;" src="http://fc17.deviantart.com/fs9/i/2006/048/0/0/Cupid__s_Demise___Silence_by_MrMotts.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span><br />It has been 7 suns<br />Since I last felt your warm embrace<br />And eight<br />Eight, oh so fucking<br />Cold<br />Nights<br />Your gentle hands<br />Exposed a world, I thought<br />I would never see<br />But now it’s<br />Gone<br />Gone<br />Gone<br />And I am once again lost<br />In the torrent of life<br />Like an autumn leaf tossing in winter winds<br />Out of place<br />And out of control.<br />Still,<br />I would not have it any other way;<br />Cupid stabbed my heart,<br />And now,<br />I must have my revenge<br />Please,<br />My creator<br />My destroyer<br />If you love me;<br />at all,<br />Please don’t tell me now.Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-59812145231910300392009-01-03T14:42:00.000-08:002009-01-12T15:31:11.998-08:00The American Way<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://th04.deviantart.com/fs11/300W/i/2006/227/2/8/__Ol_Uncle_Sam_by_Squirmanator.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 397px;" src="http://th04.deviantart.com/fs11/300W/i/2006/227/2/8/__Ol_Uncle_Sam_by_Squirmanator.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>America,</div><div>This one’s for you –</div><div>Home of the brave</div><div>And land of the free</div><div>--market capitalism, that is.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Surely, our forefathers</div><div>-and mothers,</div><div>Started with the best of intentions</div><div>“A democracy</div><div>Of the people, by the people</div><div>For the people”</div><div>They said, of course a “person” was</div><div>A rich land owning white male over the age of twenty one</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Truth be told,</div><div>It was really built by a coalition</div><div>Of two-thirds of people,</div><div>For the land-owning white people</div><div>On the backs of savage people</div><div>Who had brown skin</div><div>And lived with the land</div><div>Instead of against</div><div>Or off of, it</div><div>These people simply did not understand</div><div>“The American way”</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>“God Bless America”</div><div>Some vengeful god that must havre been</div><div>With the power of “manifest destiny”</div><div>He promised those</div><div>Greedy white men</div><div>An entire continent</div><div>Which they traded “money,”</div><div>A magical combination of green paper and metal coins</div><div>To other rich white males</div><div>Who also knew how to live against the land</div><div>In exchange for the land they then called</div><div>America.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, God’s have a sense of humor too</div><div>Although it’s a poor one, at best</div><div>Because they made contradictory promises like that all the time</div><div>This one time</div><div>He, or she, or it – for that matter</div><div>Promised the same land to two different people’s</div><div>One which claimed to be “chosen” and apparently killed his first son</div><div>And another who refused to drink his blood, and prayed five times, daily.</div><div>Then told each of them, to claim it in his honor</div><div>This land, they called</div><div>Jerusalem.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>That same god also told these</div><div>Rich white men, who called themselves Americans</div><div>And more generally, his children</div><div>To claim this land between two bodies of water in his name</div><div>So, as any child would</div><div>They obeyed the command of their father</div><div>And played a violent game of “capture the flag”</div><div>With the other people who had lived there for eons</div><div>Who had brown skin</div><div>And did not know “the American way” </div><div>Of course “flag”</div><div>Really meant life</div><div>And the white skinned people, </div><div>Did more killing than they did capturing</div><div>They did it with the best of intentions</div><div>And after all,</div><div>that’s what really mattered. </div><div><br /></div><div>Of course America was also the land of </div><div>Religions freedom</div><div>One was free to worship whatever god he or she wanted</div><div>In so far as they also worshipped </div><div>Those green pieces of paper and metal coins</div><div>Which they gladly did</div><div>So the greediest and most “American”</div><div>Of all Rich, white, land-owning, men</div><div>Who promised god to represent the will of the people</div><div>(that is, the rich land-owning white male people) </div><div>Promised some of those green pieces of paper and metal coins</div><div>To the poorer, more rugged of the white male genus</div><div>In exchange for the heads of those brown people, </div><div>Who used the land wrong</div><div>Or did not use it at all</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course everyone knew that children, </div><div>Of all colors were easy to kill</div><div>So they gave more money for the full-grown heads</div><div>Of those brown, heathen people</div><div>And even more for those which appeared to have penises</div><div><br /></div><div>But the Americans have always been </div><div>A gentle people</div><div>Eventually, they felt bad for those </div><div>Heathen brown people</div><div>Who had not yet learned how to keep themselves warm. </div><div>So that winter, they gave them blankets</div><div>Of course, those blankets were infested with small invisible creatures</div><div>That made people who were not naturally immune</div><div>--Or otherwise, rich and white,</div><div> Very, Very ill. </div><div>“it was better to die warm</div><div>Than freeze to death”</div><div>They thought. </div><div><br /></div><div>But America was no savage land</div><div>It was a land of honor, a land of justice</div><div>Eventually – those white people without penises </div><div>Managed to menstruate simultaneously </div><div>And demanded that those with penises treat them equally. </div><div>Menstruation was a technique of bleeding</div><div>For seven dsays at a time while lashing out at people</div><div>Without having to bear the consequences of doing so. </div><div>Basically, a get out of jail free card</div><div>So, to appease those people</div><div>The rich white land owning male people promised that </div><div>Those white people with vaginas instead of penises</div><div>Could help choose the rich white people</div><div>To represent their political wishes,</div><div>In a city they called “Washington” </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The two-third people with charcoal skin</div><div>Were also awarded similar rights</div><div>On the condition that they don’t bother the people with white skin</div><div>“separate but equal” </div><div>The rich white men thought</div><div><br /></div><div>So they built separate schools</div><div>And separate bathrooms</div><div>And separate restaurants</div><div>And separate water fountains</div><div>For the charcoal people</div><div>Of course the rich white men knew, </div><div>That some pigs were more equal than others. </div><div><br /></div><div>The people with brown skin also</div><div>Got their “separate but equal”</div><div>In exchange for leaving the white people alone</div><div>And not complaining about the blankets</div><div>And the killings from back when they were less-than-people</div><div>So they gave them some of the land back, </div><div>But the brown people still missed </div><div>Their less-than-people who were brutally slaughtered </div><div>So they cried all the way to their new homes. </div><div><br /></div><div>This land was eventually called “native country”</div><div>By the rich white people</div><div>Who sometimes walked down the trail of tears</div><div>To try and multiply their green paper</div><div>At placed called “Indian Casino’s” </div><div>But most of the rich white people lost money</div><div>So the rich white people who governed some of the states</div><div>(Which were smaller, more concentrated units of Americas)</div><div>Who could not stand to see the brown people win, </div><div>Banned those Casinos</div><div>On the land they supposedly gave back.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now-A-Days</div><div>Americans claim they have changed their ways</div><div>Since the charcoal people and the brown people</div><div>With penises and vaginas </div><div>Are practically equal—</div><div>Or equally disadvantaged, at least</div><div>But some other people with brown skin</div><div>From some other continent</div><div>Who pray five times a day, to some other god</div><div>Don’t believe them</div><div>and occasionally fly planes into a few American buildings, </div><div>(which are tall structures that tickle the clouds</div><div>That were built by poor people </div><div>Of all colors</div><div>For rich white male people to work, pee </div><div>And cheat on their wives in. </div><div><br /></div><div>But America, </div><div>Oh America</div><div>Has always been a just land</div><div>So we just labeled those people “terrorists”</div><div>And “enemy combatants” so we wouldn’t </div><div>Feel so guilty about slaughtering them, either</div><div>Maybe one of these days..</div><div>They too,</div><div>Will get their blankets. </div>Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-84280974052249378422009-01-03T14:40:00.000-08:002009-01-12T15:03:28.504-08:00To Blossom<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">They say spring is the most Beautiful season</div><div style="text-align: center;">I thought so too, That is, </div><div style="text-align: center;">until you showed me</div><div style="text-align: center;">Summer was the season </div><div style="text-align: center;">our love would blossom.</div><div style="text-align: center;">I had seen you around before, </div><div style="text-align: center;">Exchanged an embarrassing </div><div style="text-align: center;">Facebook message, Or two</div><div style="text-align: center;">But it was not until the summer</div><div style="text-align: center;">Of my senior year, That I felt you. </div><div style="text-align: center;">The person</div><div style="text-align: center;">The most beautiful Event,</div><div style="text-align: center;"> that ever collided</div><div style="text-align: center;">With this lost, confused soul. </div><div style="text-align: center;">But that is how the world goes round, </div><div style="text-align: center;">That’s how destiny chose </div><div style="text-align: center;">To play it’s hand</div><div style="text-align: center;">On that august night</div><div style="text-align: center;">As we sat against the wall</div><div style="text-align: center;">In what we thought then, was</div><div style="text-align: center;">The most miserable of establishments</div><div style="text-align: center;">Staring at an apartment complex </div><div style="text-align: center;">Across the road where other people danced,</div><div style="text-align: center;">And partied the night away…</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">We danced too, </div><div style="text-align: center;">That night in the silent dorm roomTo our </div><div style="text-align: center;">own love songOne more beautiful than</div><div style="text-align: center;"> I had Ever heard or felt.</div><div style="text-align: center;">This, I experienced. </div><div style="text-align: center;">The only sound</div><div style="text-align: center;">I heard was the sound </div><div style="text-align: center;">of our Heavy breathing</div><div style="text-align: center;">As you bit my lip And I </div><div style="text-align: center;">slipped my hands around </div><div style="text-align: center;">your Beautiful plush waste.</div><div style="text-align: center;">I was lost in your big brown </div><div style="text-align: center;">Eyes, for what Felt like a century. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Time passes slowly when you are</div><div style="text-align: center;">Learning to savor every second.</div><div style="text-align: center;">We fought the good fight -- You and I</div><div style="text-align: center;">Against fate, Against distance</div><div style="text-align: center;">Through even the coldest nights, </div><div style="text-align: center;">we kept our fire burning strong</div><div style="text-align: center;">whispering secrets to each other</div><div style="text-align: center;">late into the nightwe found warmth </div><div style="text-align: center;">in each others voices</div><div style="text-align: center;">while the lovers slept</div><div style="text-align: center;"> and the poets prayed. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">“two days and ten hours”</div><div style="text-align: center;">That’s how far we were from each other</div><div style="text-align: center;">But for that beautiful month, </div><div style="text-align: center;">You were here with me</div><div style="text-align: center;">By my side. </div><div style="text-align: center;">In my big broken bed, </div><div style="text-align: center;">I always left you a spot next to me, </div><div style="text-align: center;">And a match</div><div style="text-align: center;">Half-hoping that you would really </div><div style="text-align: center;">Be here, when I awoke</div><div style="text-align: center;">And we could </div><div style="text-align: center;">Burn that broken bed</div><div style="text-align: center;">Under the heat of our bodies;</div><div style="text-align: center;">Spark a love,</div><div style="text-align: center;">That we both knew</div><div style="text-align: center;">We had left, in our summer skin.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Cheers, here is to you—</div><div style="text-align: center;">My brown eye’d beauty, </div><div style="text-align: center;">We will always have Paris</div><div style="text-align: center;">Or whatever you want </div><div style="text-align: center;">to call that miserable</div><div style="text-align: center;">Austin dormroom</div><div style="text-align: center;">Where I learned</div><div style="text-align: center;">What Love</div><div style="text-align: center;"> Was</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-70589497778957860672009-01-03T14:39:00.000-08:002009-01-16T09:36:26.959-08:00Daybreak<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://fc95.deviantart.com/fs29/f/2008/106/5/c/5c4184f15e327d2bd44d8c3cfc6a287b.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 319px;" src="http://fc95.deviantart.com/fs29/f/2008/106/5/c/5c4184f15e327d2bd44d8c3cfc6a287b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Sir,<br />I call you a lot of things<br />Some good<br />And some bad<br />You are my provider – yes<br />You brought me into this world<br />And that’s a fact that sadly,<br />I cannot ignore<br />Whether on purpose, or by accident<br />Is a subject up for debate<br />But something you could never be,<br />Or will be,<br />Is my father.<br />No matter who’s name is on my birthcertificate<br />Or whatever last name I bear.<br />Sure, you are not only to blame,<br />It takes two to bear a grudge<br />But as long as you expect me<br />To live in your shadow;<br />To be your reflection –<br />I’m sorry<br />There’s simply no room for you here<br />I have simply grown too full for your cup<br />Of rum and coke<br />Or black label and sprite<br />From which you drank yourself blind<br />--To my accomplishments;<br />My growth.<br /><br /><br />But I know this is your home,<br />Your castle,<br />And like you always said<br />“we do things (your) way around here”<br />So please,<br />Do not be offended<br />As I take my leave,<br />My leap<br />My chance – at life<br />To see for myself whether or not<br />The grass is really greener on the other side<br />Don’t get me wrong<br />You will always be a part of me<br />The part that I’m always running from<br />Your shadow<br />Your reflection<br />Your smell and your touch<br />I hope, I pray<br />To a god I don’t believe in<br />I can be a better father<br />Than you<br />Ever<br />WereShikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30270607.post-91789572872861387002009-01-02T14:49:00.000-08:002009-01-16T09:25:02.758-08:00Plans<div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;" ><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">no one starts out life<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">knowing it is going to be meaningless<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">it all starts with big plans,<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">larger than life.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">curing diseases, being firemen<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">falling in love, living freely<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">you know -- dreams,<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">ambition, aspirations maybe;<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">The thing is, dreams stay exactly what they are;<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">and what they always will be :<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">Dreams.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">And one dreary night we look in the mirror;<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">42, alone and oh so fucking<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">broken and realize<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">that we can't stand the reflection<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">staring back at us.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">one by one,<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">sometimes two by two,<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">we leave this cruel world<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">just as we entered it<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">lonely,<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">miserable,<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">and crying our fucking lungs out. </span></span></span></div></span>Shikhar.Singhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11638038813178823733noreply@blogger.com0