I've written a poem for you

I ‘ve written a poem for you. Would ya like to see it? But Its not a regular rhyme Or a cheesy ballad It is only the underdone flickerings within me Yes the ones that I got while talking shit to you You know when I was comfortable just yapping shit. That. Would you be interested at all? Because I have no words of admiration The ones which squeeze themselves inadvertently While mentioning you Like when describing your lips or the high cheek bones Like mentioning the squeak in your voice Like narrating your petit nose Rather, all I wrote was how shitty I am All I spoke was the decisions I made All the fickle that my brain brewed All the holy blunders I executed with panache All the text that I could use to self-loath But didn’t you make all that so worthwhile I mean didn’t you smell like flawless Like when I hugged you on the sidewalk Like when we just yakked in the English pub round the corner With the signature green walls And the erratic paintings on them And orange faces inside guzzling beer And the hard accent but gentlemanly I quoted a Seinfeld joke on cleavage And didn’t you laugh like mad Then I guess you went calm for a bit not the awkward silence mind you, but where you knew you are not obliged to extend the conversation where you could just faff shit yes, and I faffed shit I guess I was funny enough That’s why you came over And after when you stood in my kitchen All high from the merlot And then you poked me With eyes wide and brimming And I shied Like I was a bastardly creation of his I should have held you strong I should have kissed you profusely Instead of writing a poem The words I write for you they do me no good I missed you entirely When you could have been there and in a jiffy I am also not kind of the audacious ones And with little guts and so laidback That I let it go. Now, I shudder when I talk about you I have not shuddered so much As if it were a scary movie I speak of As if I confronted my dead uncle alive Not because you were any horrendous Its because shying from the splendid you Was an ugly act And that is why I meander on Microsoft word Jotting words with quarter confidence. But the words have some affection Would you like give some heed Of course, you would find them cheesy But I found them out for you I give them in your face and unto you Your indifference kind of shoves them right up my ass

Brain Pluckings - Must 'read'

Those of you and the fortunate ones who have held ‘Brain Droppings’ in their bare hands ever, would realize that the title takes from George Carlin’s bestseller, incidentally called ‘Brain Droppings’. To quickly give a flavor, George Carlin is arguably the most revered stand-up comic artist of all times; although we do not have him anymore. But which doesn’t mean we cannot have more of him. I’ll tell you why he would name his book that though. There must have been two reasons for it (crisply laid down) as follows: 1. The book is not a regular style; it does not have any running story or even a theme or chapters interlinked. The only linkage is that all what is written was penned by Georgie. 2. It was essentially his stand up material put together- a mere congregation of pieces that ranged from 3 sentences long to sometimes 2 full pages; but which was usually it. And this was perhaps because what he wrote kind of just ‘dropped’ from his brain or so to say he felt it in such succinct a manner that he could pen it unmindful of the fact that he would ever publish it in the form of a book. He felt no need to tell a story. He just had, perhaps, the urge to blurt. And he did that pretty well. And yes, all of his pieces in themselves had small stories to tell nevertheless, which were also pretty clever. But cut to this text, and why would I stamp it as ‘brain pluckings’. It is because this is not a very fluid natural account of anything like the usual classic novels. In other words, I did not wait for those erratic flashes of brilliance to strike me which I could plainly write about; largely because I wasn’t getting any of them. Also, I must be the most under read guy scribbling away ever. I am also the most screwed up guy ever. Of course neither helps. I don’t inhale much ink through my eyes, therefore whatever I exhale suffers. I have thought about it (the cons of minimalistic reading and consequent writer’s block) and now for a while. Is it something to do with my current professional engagements, or is to do with the fact that I am not smitten yet. I did kind of an introspection of the self, but then I do that all the time. For instance, if I say a word to a colleague or a friend, regarding anything, I find myself taking a self-feedback on what I just said. And, mind you, I also do it right before saying it. I think a thought to massive degrees. For me making a call on anything, calls for over assessment; so much so that I am unable to reach a finding and remain in a flux almost always. In a nutshell, I do little but I think over it (destructively) to insane levels. Had I been reading a lot of good stuff, it may have compensated for my novice approach in dealing with routine situations, but I do not. And that is why I have been writing so little. I don’t have ideas to pen. I don’t suffer from the writer’s block; I suffer from the reader’s block instead. Perhaps I shouldn’t be writing at all. But then, once in a while, and only once in a while it becomes rather tough to keep away from frantically penning when you happen to rendezvous the likes of her. And yes in a narrow sense, when she often manages to smell so good. I don’t think I need to read a lot to be able to accurately depict the contours of a good looking face and the resulting scuffle in my head. All I do is then to jargonize my ramblings and put them on paper.