scattered dust by light enabled
transmits intent in heart tabled
to lower mind which then distorts
flavour of bliss in words labelled
I started to clap, but no-one joined in.
Do people not do that here? I asked.
But at least my applause was genuine,
Unlike a round with which one is tasked --
Pressure to buy several pints, feeling casked,
Pegged to a keg of expectation
When all you want is icy hydration.
Not feeling awkward as the odd one out
Is one of my social aspirations
When silence distorts one sound as a shout.
I learnt a new word today.
Catatonic.
The vexatious coax of its accuracy sanctifies the burden of my reluctant existence.
The vacant faith of its salvation glorifies the redundancy of my timeworn stagnation.
The inertia of my own consciousness rouses within the weight of my repulsive apathy.
I am absent.
My reflection in the window distorts into a portal.
The pale of my skin shudders, an ashen pallet of abasing beauty.
The tremors of my skin winces, a demeaning pallet of humiliating fortune.
The curve of my lips stitch shut, a confined pallet of overflowing tincture.
The violent, lilac fuse of deprivation pounds my crimson in a bloodthirsty famine of a desperate call for condemn.
Yet, the only paragon unearthed is the vacant, potent inevitability of saturation into the voices of my own void;
I will forever remain in an absence of my own conceded mould.
CURVED CONTORTION
rainbow
manifestation
of
twisted
fervent
melange
paints
linen
of
frayed
longing
as
sanguinity
sonata
nonsensical
noise
of
soul’s
surreptitious
resonance
within
leitmotif
of
life
in
existential
lattice
distorts
essence
embedded
in
convoluted
conscience
deviant
I love the taste but just can’t eat
Don’t wanna tidy but like things neat
Enjoy a walk but have no desire
Thrive on the work but easily tire
I want to see but can’t discern
I’m pleased to be, but sad to learn
A million others feel the same
Burning flicker of the flame
It distorts and disrupts my nightly dreams
With little hope to what it means.
Here it is, my big confession,
I’m scared I might have a lil depression
I have studied the mirror
until it spoke back—
not with truth,
but with hunger.
There is an individual there
who does not exist
unless it is seen—
and when it is seen,
it devours it's gaze
that made it.
It's love is a blade
polished to brilliance,
held out as a gift
that cuts only inward—
never itself.
It builds kingdoms
out of other people’s breath,
taxes their tenderness,
burns their doubt for warmth,
and calls it survival.
Inside it,
a child once whispered,
“I am small.”
I am vulnerable, do you not hear me?
But the whisper was buried
beneath monuments of grand design—
stone upon stone
of borrowed admiration.
It cannot bear the quiet,
for silence tells the truth:
there is no throne—
only scaffolding.
And so it fractures the world
before it can reflect on it's self clearly—
distorts, denies, divides—
until even the stars
seem to orbit it absence.
I have measured it
not in cruelty,
but in emptiness.
A void
that must consume
to feel its edges.
And still—
in the deepest chamber
where no audience follows—
It stands before a cracked mirror
that will not speak,
and fears
it never will.
marooned maestro
floats frustrated
with
waned creative craving
in
sensual stream
of
impeded passion
faces monotonous
stodgy scenario
over
tedious terrain
of
temporal template
in
bleary plateau
of
consumed composer’s
blasé bearing
it then seeks
for
algorithmic arousal
of
stimulation and style
within
cauldron of coherent fecundity
but
dismayed downright
by
lamentable lack
of
Promethean depth
devoid of buoyant drive
of
imagination impulse
snapped strings
of
violin heart
don’t resonate singularity
with
impassive articulation
of
simulated strokes
emotive melody
of
congruent cadence
distorts in disarray
in convoluted concerto
of
synthetic sonata
I want to choose, but life’s demands refuse;
still, with intent, I spin these lines in rhyme.
The world denies, distorts what I would use,
yet I hold course in this unyielding clime.
From birth, we’re formed in crowded public schools,
taught lessons, tamed, and channeled to graduate;
they save us from becoming “useless” fools,
yet steal our time to dream and self-create.
I want the space and freedom for my path,
my way (to guard the sovereignty of my thoughts);
never again will my hard-won, applied math
enrich the suits whose souls give me no thought.
Picture this
A perfect portrait of what could be
A snap shot in time
A memory frozen in warmth
A flash of serenity
If I could hold every second in this camera of love
Would it be blurry or undeveloped
Could it be a work of art
Could it take me away
Pictures of the past still grey
Glimpses unsteady because of a fearful hand
No film to devolp when it stays hidden
Backgrounds of what love use to be cloud my judgement
Try to crop it try to block out the pain
But it never seems to be what it needs to be
The lense I look through is always cracked
Always broken from me
Peices of a heart broken in shreds
If I took a picture of what has become
The shot continues to fade with each year
I just need a digtal print where I have moved past
What the zoom distorts and clearly see
everything this tripod of life can hold for me.
War in its profound essence
begins not in the battlefield,
but in the dark chambers of human ego.
The self-interest thrives on the illusion of invincibility,
distorts the judgement of historical forces,
designs the destiny of nations
to misshape the configuration of the world.
The selfish egos of war write the story of pride,
seeking a permanent legacy of triumph.
The tragedy lies in their blindness to the primary truth
that all existence is intertwined,
and to harm others is to destroy oneself
when the guns go silent and the dusts settle.
In the irrationality of war their vanity
can’t transcend the narrow limits of egotism.
Sedated by the delusion of greatness
the selfish egos of war seek to embed themselves
upon the enduring world,
but their quest for immortality ironically hastens erasure.
I've severed my conscious from the backplates of my brain. I’ve pleated vine and cord through the cracks of my rib, bedsores spreading across my ever-paling appearance. I haven't left this hole in weeks.
I get nauseous at my own proof of life, conviction, correction of every flaw flowing out the gaps in my crooked mouth. I let insecurity envelop me, so I hide. I hibernate through nightfall and shorter sunshine. I paint powder over blemishes and broken bones. I crave to be coddled in frozen droplets and sheer fabrics that cool my skin; But I can't bear to be draped in anything but harsh winter coats and the pudge that distorts my figure.
Maybe, I'm addicted to hatred. A taste so strong I can only starve it out of my system - though I'd drown in the taste of every regret I've shoved down. Every loss of control is sharp at the end, blackening my ivories and souring my savory-sweet till I'm all overt ailment and I can't salt the snow that strikes me.
Over time, I've been pricked and prodded. What is now only winter breath replacing empty calories down my throat. What was once soft snowfall is now avalanche, and I can't bring myself to do anything but lay down and freeze.
The line "Looks like a good night to fly"
last words of a Reddit user's great-uncle referred to as Gillybilly
Gillybilly's great-uncle was a Navy pilot in WW II who flew jets for 30 years
I've been behind bars for way too long
each time a prison warden sings that same old song,
"When you've done your time Bub we will release yous"
I'd shuffle my cards then let them fall, hadn't I paid my dues?
They called it psychosis, a personality disorder that distorts reality
it seems to me I have been in here for Oh! a mere eternity!
"Unable to understand his wrongful actions, cuff those guys!" they said,
I replied, "Its a good day to die" in my killer clown's disguise
When the Commissioner said, " go ahead release him " to the guards
I washed my face, combed my hair, and played my last trump card
Sitting on the grass watching the last shards of light, I was glad I didn't die
I came to realize that I was now alone, ... "Looks like a good day to fly"
I whispered to a bat as he soared hard and fast against the sky,
"Looks like a good night to fly," and then I began to cry !
Lay there sinking, thinking
under the surface of sodden anxieties.
Recall you darkly
the flickering hours, the tinctured years,
as sweat-stained sheets leech.
This room may be your last gasp,
but you can’t tell,
time distorts death as it does life.
Come morning, the body
(if it is still fitfully aware),
may be rinsed by an untried light,
an embalmed mind unwrapped
as muggy dreams are moped away
for one more uncertain day.
In dream last night when I talked to AI,
Our dialogue went on back and forth like this:
I said, look, we see what we like well nigh,
Hope, you’re not held with such human disease.
We can read misspelt words as fair and right,
I hope, you’ve acquired this ability--
To ignore what might fail to conform quite,
We can mute what distorts the harmony.
Wait, you see no more than twenty percent,
AI claimed, and make up from memory.
Is that so bad? I asked unrepentant
And this round ended to no one’s glory.
I woke with muezzin’s call at masjid gate,
The dream ended awaiting next date.
______________________________
Sonnet |16.07.2025| dream, technology
Note: AI= artificial intelligence, HI= human intelligence
The hymns bend backward, curved by mass,
Where light itself cannot surpass.
No chapel stands, no bell is rung,
Just gravity’s unending tongue.
The scriptures float, unpinned by law,
Their ink consumed in cosmic jaws.
A preacher prays, but time distorts—
His voice is trapped in falling thoughts.
What god survives such dark collapse?
What faith can cross event’s last lapse?
The soul’s equation must be clear:
No heaven lies beyond this sphere.
Yet still, within that silent maw,
A question stirs the minds in awe:
Does meaning stretch where matter ends,
Or fall, like light, as space-time bends?
And is belief the last to die,
Or just the urge to ask—and try?
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