roots

till that last ounce of emotion
lit up
till those exaggerated poems
he once wrote becomes a reality
till the school books
turn into big lies
till the track of his tears
disappear
till every thing that once mattered
lose it's importance
till he realizes
that you don't meet many people who'd stick with you till last
till he falls in love
deeply and truly
till he starts replying to the letters
because he wants to
till he paints down his own emotions
and not for some pretty girl he wants to impress
till he starts drinking
not to get high
till he starts giving his punching bag
names and characters
till he learns to smile
at the liars
till he starts to forgive
because there's no way out anyway
till his mistakes become guilt
and that guilt burn his insides
till he gives up those english songs
and starts understanding the folk
till he is back to his roots
till then,
wait,
because then only your Boy would be home. - roots / m. sandhu

disability

clueless, totally
i am
i mean it's kind of a mess
i've failed, miserably, pathetically
and all other something-ly-ies
i've failed to photograph, pen down, paint and express
the moments which deserved to be.
it had always been about the moments before
or after
the one which really...
i don't know the word here..
the one that would mean 'deserved to fly down the memory lanes of people in such a way that would inspire and induce a thought process'
getting me?
maybe it's my lack of knowledge
and ability to express as i feel
or just cowardliness
wars have ruined men
maybe
you know.
it's like cowardliness.
and the fear, which you feel
when you think that your ideas,
ideas which didn't emerge on their own,
but were forced out of brain,
would yawn into sleep,
slowly, with time and
the distance one will have to scroll down your timelines,
and the expressions and that fire beneath those lungs
somewhere, unknown to bio students
would sob, mourn and rest.
or those moments where
you had a choice and a fear
and the moments where you had vulnerability and an image
where you seeked discipline and freedom,
at the same time.
or maybe its...
...
(His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy
There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti
He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready
To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgettin'
What he wrote down, the whole crowd goes so loud
He opens his mouth, but the words won't come out
He's chokin', how, everybody's jokin' now
The clocks run out, times up, over, blaow!)
...
...
"yes?...no...talk to you tomorrow...switch off the lights and close the door after you"
...
don't worry,
you'll create,
when that Fire
would start burning your insides.
till then try taming your demons with high bass. - disability / m. sandhu