Tag Archives: existential poetry

We Were the Answer All Along

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A spiritual journey that ends not in heaven, but in the self.

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I was searching for Him, here and there,

asking all the right questions - who and where

I had been looking for Him since my very birth,

under the kind sky and above the sordid earth

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I thought He was my father in a great disguise,

by my side, through all the downs and the highs

Then he went away one day, never to return,

leaving me alone to grow up, survive, and learn

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I thought I saw Him in my mother’s loving eyes,

her stern looks and valuable words, always so wise

Then she chose to live for herself as it was her right,

forcing me to resist, mature, and sometimes even fight

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I searched for Him in the smiles of my friends,

as life made us run around its many sharp bends

They demonstrated their limitations so very often,

and sometimes I even had to carry their heavy coffin

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I searched for Him in the words of my few mentors,

they gave me new knowledge and opened new doors

But then, even they faltered and committed mistakes,

and what we really had was, in fact, all gives and takes

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I looked for Him in the face of a haggard beggar,

sitting on the pavement in his tattered sweater

But then he pleaded and appealed and wept,

and that he was not the Almighty, I had to accept

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I looked for Him in the power of the rich,

ruthlessness and authority without any glitch

But then their corruption became so clear,

and I understood their secret, their dark and hidden fear

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I thought I was never going to find Him,

my efforts all failed, and the prospects were so grim

I looked up and prayed, but there was no reply,

I would never find him, I almost admitted with a sigh

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Then one morning, I woke up from a long dream,

it was so damn lucid, it had an actual theme

The dream was mine, and it was mine alone,

and everything in the dream, I could wilfully own

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In that dream, there was a multitude of choices,

and I could hear all the reasons and all the voices

In that dream, I was free to live and to decide,

I could choose freely, if I wanted shame or pride

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In that dream, I could abandon or hold hands,

and could peep into future, and see results of my plans

In that dream, there was no religion and no rites,

only morality reigned and established all the rights

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It was my dream, and I could make it a nightmare,

it was my dream, and I could make it either cheap or rare

It was my dream, and I was a god dreaming it,

it was my dream, and I could act as I saw or deemed fit

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Waking up, I realized, we all dream our own dreams,

even this life could be one or a long series of dreams

Waking up, I realized, God is not a separate being,

He is our part - we all are almighty and the all-seeing

The Pros and Cons of Thinking and Overthinking

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Where thinking sharpens insight, and overthinking sharpens fear.

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I am a thinker, and I am almost always thinking,

and then overthinking what I have already thought

That’s what I do all the time, being a thinker,

thinking about what thinking has done and brought

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I believe I was thinking before I was even born,

of my fate and my purpose, and I was so thrilled

I believe I will be thinking after I am dead,

of my life, and if the purpose was finally fulfilled

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I believe I have always been thinking,

of my destiny and the paths leading to it

I believe I will always be thinking,

if I am on the right path or falling into a pit

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I keep on thinking of other things as well,

mostly kind and sometimes so cruel

The kind ones I reserve for others,

while the cruel ones are for myself as a rule

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I keep on thinking of dark possibilities,

the distance between a bullet and my brain

Is it exactly one impulsive decision long,

or do the decisions form a long chain?

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Or how much blood is sprayed everywhere,

when a bullet-ridden body thrashes around?

Is it just enough to write a final message,

or is it by buckets, and seeping into the ground?

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Or even how does the brain perceive the bullet?

Does it get frightened by the violent invasion,

or does it welcome the small projectile?

A possibility of completing the equation?

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Also, how much time do the memories consume,

to fade away in the darkness and to get extinguished?

Are they switched off suddenly and abruptly,

or are they slowly and gradually relinquished?

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I think, and I ask myself all these questions,

and when answered, the results frighten me

But sometimes the questions remain questions,

hanging stalactites, piercing my heart with glee

Fading Away is Impossible

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A poem about wanting to disappear—and realizing why we cannot.

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Sometimes I wish I could just fade away,

leaving behind no memory, not even a trace

Sometimes I wish I could remove myself,

from this stupid illusion of life and space

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There are a million colors in the world;

one black less, and it won’t make any difference

There are a billion stars in the dark night sky,

one going dark won’t make any difference

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What am I in this complicated puzzle?

A minute piece of desire, and nothing else

What am I in this mine of diamonds?

A small piece of black coal, and nothing else

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Leaving would be perfect – a final solution,

to the conflict between desire and reality

Leaving would be beautiful – a final touch,

to a trashy abstract painting that I see

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Fading is simple, and leaving no trace is impossible;

removal is easy, and leaving no memory is hard

What to do and what not to do? It’s a dilemma

But I have to play it, it’s my final card

Who Gives a Shit?

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A brutal, unapologetic poem about meaning, indifference, and the absurdity of existence.

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Who gives a shit if we win or if we lose;

or if we go free, or if we tighten the noose?

We are all here to walk for only a while,

some walk for ages, and some for a mile

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Who gives a shit if you remember our deeds;

or forgotten by all for whom we sow the seeds?

We are all here to do our own part,

some make it a burden, a few make it an art

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Who gives a shit if we remain forever chaste;

or if we surrender to lust even with distaste?

We were blessed with pleasure by Him;

we must follow its fulfilment at a whim

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Who gives a shit if we walk a virtuous path;

or if we love what’s forbidden and invite His wrath?

Sins are seductive, and virtue is so boring;

to walk straight is dull, and so indulging is the whoring

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Who gives a shit if we are as moral as the prophets;

or if we favour immorality because of huge profits?

Comfortable is what this life is supposed to be;

luxury is what we should all pursue with glee

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Who gives a shit if we believe in one or more gods;

or, if we choose to be faithless and don’t bet on odds?

We may decide to be a herd without a shepherd;

but in a race for survival, we need to be the leopard

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Who gives a shit if we ever get what we want;

or if we fail and are ready to face each taunt?

When we get lucky, we should thank our stars;

when we miss the mark, it was never ours

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Who gives a shit if we are as selfless as we claim;

or if we are all selfish, playing our own game?

Life is so merciless, as we have all lived and seen;

on the other side, it is always brown and never green

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Who gives a shit if we keep on living for long;

or if we die tomorrow, being crushed by a throng?

We didn’t matter at all, we never really mattered;

our dreams of grandeur should be all shattered

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Who gives a shit if all goes quiet when we die;

or if it all restarts and we are born anew with a cry?

One cycle or one after another, a sequence or progression,

we may all be one or a part of a large procession

Chronicles of the Unhappy

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This is not a poem about sadness, but about the curse of chasing happiness.

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The unhappy are forever to remain alone,

for that is the decreed nature of their fate

Happiness is an elusive dream they pursue,

and when they fail, it is themselves that they hate

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Each time they are happy, it’s an illusion,

which fades as quickly as it had appeared

Each time they are happy, there’s a rush,

that changes into agony, soon to be feared

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Fear them not, theirs is not a black curse,

for they are unhappy but may dispense joy

With hearts so bitter and eyes so radiant,

they are like the legendary horse of Troy

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But beware, never show them any kindness,

for they assume hope where there is none

Beware, your affection is like acidic venom,

for they assume love where there is none

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For their eternally stupid pursuit of happiness,

the unhappy are pitiable and are to be mocked

And for their constant vigil for non-existent hope,

their doors remain silent and are never knocked