DEAR PAMELA
Dear pamela,
The song about you remind me of pains
Your smiles remind me of that day
The sun visited the earth in her full human
To touch the soul of another human being
Is to walk on a holy ground but yours is a
Burning hell decorated with brimstones
Instand of ros flowers which are made in woman's heart.
You are of sadness and weired experience to me
I take as my guide, the hope of a saint in
Crucial things but your presence in my life
Frustrates my believe and trust for womanhood.
I watched the time eroding away, my soul laughed
Sarcastically; your tears built the hut which
Harbour my happiness and my life is long gone
Leave now! I beg you with tears.
The day is still young and fresh to ruin my life
I look forward to get my lost rib not you
Young ladies await me in the corner
Do not be a hinderance to my life
Another will love and care for you more than me
My heart belongs to another, dear pamela.
AM FUTILE WITHOUT YOU
CAN'T COPE UP WITH LIFE
ALL THINGS ARE WEIRED
MY OYSTER
AM DEVOURED BY FEAR
AND FILLED WITH DISMAY
...AT YOUR ABSENCE.
I have
made
mistake in
my past
but never
as serious
as this and
i know i
will only
have
myself to
blame if
you leave
and that
scares me
more and
more than
i've been
scared in
my life coz
i feel
something
weired in
me
whenever i
see you.
For you're
my true
motivation
the only
real thing
in which i
believe,everythng
else is just
a fantasy
to my
egotistical
ideals.
Its always
been
me,me for
far too
long and
lately i
haven't
give even
passing
thought to
your
concern i
let them
past fly me
but now i
know i
was
wrong.
So please
take time
to think
about
what i've
said as it
comes
from the
heart.
Take time
and try to
forgive my
failure to
deliver and
if you can't
cast me
out of your
life and
never
return and
i will be
put into
shame
forever
Ahead of pain, we did not cry;
intimating of dreams, crowded;
stranded on issues, reaching nowhere.
Black, a weired hairdo, unfurls a moon
in half-sleep. You can open the door
without sound. The snake writhes under your feet.
A traveler waits for a hymn, holds a green
urn, full of tiny eyes, looks at sky and returns
the darkness for any possibility of light.
The missile whistles down; hushed, gnarled
fingers start the rescue efforts in a lonely
cosmos; goldilocks starts howling.
Terror strikes again in offering, so far
about nothingness; a vague, masked scapegoat
sits in bold greens, to start the beginning of end.
SATISH VERMA
Ahead of pain, we did not cry;
intimating of dreams, crowded;
stranded on issues, reaching nowhere.
Black, a weired hairdo, unfurls a moon
in half-sleep. You can open the door
without sound. The snake writhes under your feet.
A traveler waits for a hymn, holds a green
urn, full of tiny eyes, looks at sky and returns
the darkness for any possibility of light.
The missile whistles down; hushed, gnarled
fingers start the rescue efforts in a lonely
cosmos; goldilocks starts howling.
Terror strikes again in offering, so far
about nothingness; a vague, masked scapegoat
sits in bold greens, to start the beginning of end.
SATISH VERMA
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