Soumya Scribbles...

There is this dark sea, One that scares, baffles, reminds you are a human. There is this shore. Sands - treacherous they are they will slide away. Each step is drunk with a beauty that awaits and uncertainty that roars. As I stand there endangered and mesmerized, the sky plays cruel. There are stars and no moon. Black as it is with a little gray, Surrendering is only pivotal. Either way, you are already killed to live, better. SoUmY@

And I sold off my poems today. The ones who bought it had red sackbag with them. They never knew what poetry is about, neither did they care. They cared about the ounce and pounds. Convert the numerics if you will. I have a bright Eucalyptus as my memory. Can green be bright? Perhaps. They have the Sun behind them. The roots have reached where they should not. Restraint is a play of nervous system. You may be as random as your favorite liqour And its a pity that it takes one peg to write a poetry or may be one or two smokes. Art always was whimsical, but never sedated. With a little of all that we know, and all that we don't, a violin, little rings of cigar and lost alleys of Varanasi, You won't know what you are, Unless you have lost yourself Once. SoUmY@

A dazzling night and I can not sleep as easily as you can. In my millions of veins there is a rebel that fumes and exerts and still is quiet. A blood that freezes an ice, is of mine. What is it to write without an eraser? it is almost you, real. The way you falter and can not clean the way you can derange and be helpless So are we on the sheets. I had seen a painter who has sketched on a black art paper. Art, as they are, indistinguishable, Unavoidable, plain as the paper. Bring him a white chalk, perhaps. Likewise, we all are. We run while the hideouts are lit up And then face a chuckle, gross. I will run to the horizon to search shyness. SoUmY@

If you want to escape, surrender yourself to the cloud, once. You may float as the density of emotions were never as great as clouds. They carry traces of other world's. You are a no one there. Biting my fingers is a pleasure that I derive from my drinks. I like to feel if I am me. Almost like this night where I am drunk And can feel myself more than I do with you all. there is a loneliness that is comforting, strangely. Far away from where you can reach I have a world of my own. A world that I savour, even the pain. if you had come, realize, All that glitters were never gold, but life, alright. SoUmY@

We all live with a box. There inside lies black papers, earthen pots, some postcards of countries I have never been, A few letters and a past. Some trees have roads in between. They stand in a row. When it pours, I come out with the box, Take a drop or two of seasonal rain, Keep it. The earthen pots may melt. The postcards are old, they refuse color. But clouds travel. This rain may come from cross-atlantic. I keep all that I can not touch, then. Possessions are not prismatic. They reflect pity. They reflect past you can't live without. For all of us, the box is that. Some day I will go to the quietest river and drop the box with all I had. Then I will dive. We all die with and without. - SoUmY@