Tag Archives: pleasure

Our Heaven is Here, Our Hell is Here

Posted in Poetry English by

What if heaven and hell aren’t places you go after death, but consequences you create with every action?

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For those who look up to the skies with searching eyes,

look all around us, our heaven is here, our hell is here

They are all liars, the holy ones with their beseeching cries,

they do not seek your salvation; they simply do not care

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When you smile with joy, seeing a lovely piece of art,

the beautiful flowers of heaven, you can indeed smell

When jealousy scars your soul and burns your pure heart,

you can feel the searing heat of the flames of your hell

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When you taste your lover’s kiss and her warm embrace,

the cool breeze of heaven surrounds your whole being

When betrayal murders your ego and brings you disgrace,

the fires of hell consume you without you ever seeing

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When you choose to be kind without any expectation,

the rain clouds from heaven drench you with humility

When you are selfish and within reach of damnation,

the serpent of guilt suffocates you with sheer hostility

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When you hold a tired hand much in need of your help,

your heart becomes heaven, filled with His affection

When you hit a dog without any care for his yelp,

the poisonous scorpion of Karma makes its own selection

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There may come an end, there may be a judgment day,

you may be judged by Him; He may be kind or merciful

But when you make a choice, you always have to pay,

you may create an ugly hell or a heaven so beautiful

The Prophet and the Devil

Posted in Poetry English by

Introduction

A haunting narrative poem exploring the eternal struggle between light and darkness within the human soul. This introspective piece delves into themes of moral duality, spiritual conflict, and the coexistence of prophet and devil in one person. Through vivid imagery of pain, redemption, and self-reflection, the poem examines how opposing forces of kindness and temptation shape our existence. Perfect for readers seeking deep philosophical poetry about human nature, internal battles, and the complex relationship between good and evil that defines the human experience.

Constantly walking down a dark alley of pain,

a cold path, leading to no loss and no real gain

He walks alone; he has always been walking alone,

each step is an agony, but he doesn’t groan or moan

He stops for a moment to take a tired breath;

thinking of his sad existence and a pitiful death

He sees a man sitting and leaning forward,

he doesn’t move, his posture so awkward

Brains blown out, there is silence in the hall,

no commotion, just blood splashed on the wall

His dead eyes, motionless, clouded and sallow,

that man is him, a life so deep and a death so shallow

Who were you really? He asks the dead man,

What did you really want? What was your clan?

Pulls onto his own hair matted with blood and brain,

he sees himself smile, though in actual he is slain

I was the product of imagination, the darkest of them all,

pain, sorrow, and suffering, an amalgamation of them all

Slowly cooked and roasted upon the fire of circumstances,

I took every risk and I availed all the chances

I hung myself all through my life, on the cross of desire,

my guilt and my regrets, lighting a damn big fire

My body laughed so hard, while my soul slowly bled,

the nails of remorse drawing blood, dark and red

I wore the crown of pleasure, dancing the dance of senses,

each conquest was glory, no qualms, no mending fences

But it was a crown of thorns, my soul writhed in pain,

and on the cross of desire, my character was finally slain

I was a prophet, I was the devil, the contrast burnt so bright,

the devil on the left always, and the prophet on the right

Kindness was the prophet’s domain; he ruled it so well,

sensuality was the devil’s game; he played it in hell

The prophet held hands and fanned the flames of life,

the devil played his flute and sharpened his sinful knife

The prophet bowed in humility, acknowledging his bounds,

the devil laughed in shadows and made his daily rounds

They were opposite in nature, but they shared a core,

crying over a broken heart, weeping for a whore

But when tired of crying, they both walked the earth,

in search of some joy, in search of some mirth

The devil broke some hearts, the prophet mended souls,

the devil stole some dreams, the prophet filled some holes

The devil caused some chaos, the prophet preached some order,

but the prophet stayed behind, while the devil crossed the border

Then they both sat together and wept and cried some more,

the prophet on his throne and the devil on the floor

The prophet told the devil that they had different fates,

the devil smiled and offered, ‘No, we are soul mates’

The dead fell silent and chose to speak no more,

he only thought in silence, shaken to the core

There was a dichotomy, though he always knew,

that it was no stark, he had no clue

He was two, not one, that was the only fact,

the prophet and the devil, it was a strange pact

He looked ahead and started to walk again,

the prophet and the devil, in the dark alley of pain

The Anatomy of Love

Posted in Poetry English by

Real love isn’t found in kisses—it’s found in the darkness you’re willing to accept.

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Love comes not,

when you kiss her smiling lips and turn your feelings South,

and find them sweet and moist, past that formidable pout

And love comes not,

when you hold her hand and choose to kiss her bitter mouth,

and find it sour and so parched, her sadness, an eternal drought

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Love comes not,

when you lie down together, the naked you with the naked her,

her warmth entwined with yours, and the feelings that you stir

And love comes not,

when you hold your ego in check and laugh and cry with her,

the silly mistakes you commit, and the boundaries that you blur

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Instead, love comes,

when you walk in her shoes and choose to fight her fight,

finding all that is absolutely dark, and finding all that is light

And love comes,

when you feel the warmth with joy and own the day with pride,

when you walk the path to darkness, you trace the origin of night

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Love really comes,

when you sneak into her soul, and see the real wreckage,

finding all that is rotten, the ugly weight of her baggage

And love really comes,

When you search for her broken heart and find the only passage,

owning all that is rotten, sharing the burden of her baggage

The Life and Times of a Box of Chocolates (Previously, Love & Chocolates)

Posted in Poetry English by
Un cuore nel cioccolato

The rise and fall of desire, told through a box of chocolates.

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There is nothing more enchanting,

than a full box of chocolates

There is nothing more satisfying,

and there is nothing more ecstatic

There is nothing more elating,

and there is nothing more fantastic

There is no bigger blessing,

than a full box of chocolates

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When the box is full,

it is a box filled with dreams

In every little bite,

the taste of chocolate and creams

When the box is full,

it is a box filled with love

In every colored wrapper,

flavor enfolded within a delicious glove

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When the box is full,

it makes you richer than the richest

Exploring all the candies,

becomes better than a quest

When the box is full,

it makes you very blessed

Savoring each flavor,

is an experience, better than the best

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Then your greed takes over,

and the box starts getting empty

Bit by bit, and piece by piece,

it goes away, and it was quite plenty

Each piece of candy,

is one step closer to bliss

Each opened wrapper,

reminds you of a lover’s kiss

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You lick your fingers,

you lick them again and again

You swirl your tongue,

the pleasure is wild and insane

You get addicted to the candies,

the creams and the flavors

You get obsessed with the pleasure,

the chocolates become soul savers

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To make the chocolates stay,

you keep the box closed

You even hide it away,

trying to remain composed

You harness all your patience,

you keep your urge in check

You smile at your complacency,

but your determination is a wreck

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Then the greed attacks again,

and your hands wander close

Your desire rekindles and takes over,

and caution, thither it goes

You take one, you take two,

and then you take the final bit

You blow caution to the wind,

the box is finally empty, and you also quit

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There is nothing more tragic

than an empty box of chocolates

There is nothing more frustrating,

and there is nothing more depressing

There is nothing more saddening,

and there is nothing more maddening

There is no bigger dilemma,

than an empty box of chocolates

The Lament of Imagined Worlds (Previously, Harbingers of Doom)

Posted in Poetry English by

A journey through dreams where prophets whisper, and sirens lie, and where imagination walks among shamans, sinners, and dying fires.

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Sometimes, I imagine the most unimaginable,

playing with lightning within the clouds of doom

At other times, I dream the most indescribable,

part of another time, walking the hallways of gloom

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Sometimes, I visit the land of the sad throat singers,

their chords singing the melody - foretelling the end

Then there are men from the West - the tired gunslingers,

flames are dying slowly - the fires that they tend

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There are shamans from Tibet - humming ancient words,

and flutes playing softly, the lament of the damned

Lonely prophets in the streets - the ever-preying birds,

warning of the apocalypse, their words all crammed

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There are lonely gypsy women, with wings under their feet,

their crystal balls telling fabulous lies, all without shame

Sirens hungry for young blood with their smiles so sweet,

their seduction dancing the tango - a never-ending game

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I see the silent eyes of the mindless throng - ruled by sin,

smiles masking a thousand fetishes, all pleasure and lust

Tears of the guilty Midas, hiding the insatiable grin,

desires swirling in frenzy, their feet covered in rust

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I dream of the strange mer-people under the stormy seas,

the weight of the dark waters burdening their heart

Pale mermaids and their sad laments, begging on their knees,

weaving a million enticements, perfecting their art

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I dream of dense forests, under the humid skies,

the old, gnarled trees, standing a solemn guard

Roots gripping the black soil, upwards they rise,

the old gods sleep, their memories all marred

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Sometimes I imagine, and sometimes I only dream,

pastimes of a failed saviour and delusions of grandeur

Life is the darkest of all curses, and so it may seem,

users have failed the system, and He is only a voyeur