Heh.

How cynical can you get?

For I am real cynical right now. As cynical as can be. So much that I am secretly proud of myself about it. I mean, I have achieved the prowess of taking anything from innately mundane to extraordinarily beautiful and twisting it in my mind to make it look like my cousin's pet dog's excreta. Nice no?

Shit man. I can't write for nuts. The funny part is I've known that for so long and I still keep going at it. Thats also the sad part. Most lame ass attempts at poetry in the history of blogging; for that matter, history of literature; of the world; of everything. Another funny thing is that I will keep going at it. And some time later write another angry rant about how I, in general, suck. Write. God, this is so hilarious already. Please let me die of laughter.

No one reads it though. Thats a consolation. There is a very dismal satisfaction in the fact that the world does not see your worst. Not much of it anyway. Why, then, am I not writing all this on a notepad file?

See what I mean? Hilarious.

Poor blog though. What rubbish it has had to digest. My only listener, my so called friend, you moronic piece of pathetic web-shit, I am sorry. So sorry.

The problem with being a lonely cynic is that you have no one else to criticize but you. The problem with living life is that it does not come with a backspace button. The problem with being me is that I cannot get the heck out of this place. This nightmare. The problem, my dear blog, my faithful reader, is yours.

All literature is consolation. Sigh. This is not literature then.

My only listener, my so called friend, is this cynical enough for you?

Afraid for her more than I am afraid for me.

Such is life. And its only just begun.
I write blue. Sitting next to the golden purple night.
And the droplets of light which used to be stars, sometime ago.
The lamp posts shining a dull bleak white;
they used to be warm, sometime ago.
Cold black wind blows from across the river.
Brushes against my arms. Taking something away with it.
leaves me cold. Paints me black.
It used to be a friend, sometime ago.
Yesterday, even the guitar string broke.
She's given up on me too. Hadn't. Sometime ago.
As the first little rays of the sun open their eyes
I will walk through yesterday night's frost.
In search of that lost part of the past.
I was nothing, sometime ago.
...still am.

God is...

All literature is consolation.

An inevitable sense of impending doom.
As I wait for the seventh wave to strike.

Kill the lights. They re of no use anymore.
Just the firefly, perched on top of my guitar case.
And the rain, gently knocking on my doorstep.
And my life.
Push something white hot into the flesh.
Hold it there.
Now Breathe.
Breathe. For its the least you can do.
Hold it there. Compare.
The reflections. The kohl. The songs. Despair.
For again, like about everything else in my life
I remain clueless.

An inevitable sense of impending doom.
As I wait for the seventh wave to strike.
..For when it does, I will stop writing.