Fear Factor

They think subtle you are

even you feel right they are

They consider you meek

making you believe the same thing

Don’t fall for such tricks

go show them your fury

Don’t lay your arms down

be conscious of your strength

Thinking that you are helpless

is your biggest weakness

Have no fear

show no tear

Show the cheer

to beat this factor

Wake Up

We are reaping,
the offspring’s.
We are ignoring,
a tiny point.
That man is fallible,
is there evidence.
You are gullible,
not aware of decadence.
You need to wake up,
crawl out quickly.
From your hideout,
rinse eyes properly.
Brains need washout,
need of projection.
Of this demolition,
by the villains.
Against civilians,
you need to shake up.
You need to wake up,
you aren’t a princess.
Prince won’t come and kiss,
but misery maybe.
Soon kissing your heels,
man is fallible.
There is evidence
wars on everywhere,
crimes are commonplace.
Suicide isn’t mistake,
if you survive.
This butchery,
then you can fight.
Without machinery,
but you will have to wake up.
You will have to remove muck,
settled in your eyes.
Get the rush of blood,
straight to your head.
Don’t forget,
man is fallible.
Effects maybe terrible,
not even manageable.
Wake up,
wake up everyone.
Take action,
rebel .
Rebel or this crap,
may prevail forever.

My Comment:
This poem is to tell people to ditch
their habit of ignoring all that ails our society.
Stop turning a blind eye!

Ashpot

Why were they made the victim,
as they were my only kin.
Why was I only spared,
why weren’t bullets on me sprayed.
In my mind are fresh their thoughts,
and their ashes are fresh in this pot.
Left with only this to stare,
this pot full of ashes.
Everything now beyond my care,
to me nothing can possibly scare.
Now my body feels almost dead,
those gross scenes don’t seem to fade.
In my mind their yelps are resonating,
their smiling faces make me feel guilty.
Now I am left with no one to love,
no one to laugh.
No one to cry with,
but only this thing.
Ashpot

My Comment:
This poem is a narration of
what must be going on in a Kashmiri boy's mind,
after his kin were killed in a terrorist attack on his house.

Crematorium

He works in a place,
going there no one craves.
But they arrive one day,
Without much fan fare.
He works in a place,
crematorium is its name.
He saw tears in eyes,
false or true can’t classify.
To ashes as the dead are burnt,
everyone goes back home.
Some sit there and sob,
as if dead may return if they sob.
He isn’t averse to pain,
he has lost all he knew.
Know he sits there,
and waits patiently.
As the ashes slowly cool,
place gets deserted look.
He has to do his job,
to give the place a mop.
And wait for the next corpse,
and a follow up sob.
Again he will do his job,
to give the place a mop.
He works in this place,
crematorium is its name.

My Comment:
This poem is a narration of
point of view of a sweeper working in a crematorium.

Blood Stained Bodies

Blood stained bodies,
I see them everywhere.
Blood stained bodies,
their faces can be traced.
in this thick haze,
calling they are for help.
But I can do nothing,
for the blood stained bodies.
Because I am myself dead,
I just can't touch them.
Nor can they touch me,
I want to help.
these injured souls,
but I am lifeless.
I feel hopeless,
I am just watching them.
and their blood stained bodies,


My Comment:
This poem is set in a battlefield, it is a narration of a soldier who is dead. This soldier is dead. He can see his wounded fellows. He wants to help his fellow soldiers, who are injured, but alive, but he knows he cannot.

Read to know the purpose of this blog

This blog will be a forum for poems, that don't fit in the typical mold, that won't be published, which are radical, creative beyond understanding, socio-political, or show a picture of truth and reality. Majority of them were written from the year 2001-2003