To Crimson Boulevard

Hey! I’m lost. Lost with this particular Autumn Series. The idea grew out of nowhere and just got fixated. The name ‘Autumn‘ however came from the character in 500 days of Summer. She hit me straight through the feels.

To feel for each sentence in these verses has been hard. I’m a fresher dude in this type. I never foresaw. Autumn’s been sweet and cruel and I think, might never end in my case. The one part that cries inside me asks for the season to end. The other part that wants to write, embraces the tears. Also, tears apart. And has given me the happiest blog moments ever!*smiles*

(A part of the text, here that was related to the title was deleted by the writer.)

It’s in between. It’s hard to write now, or ramble(Oh! Yeah) now. Bear with me! I’m looking for suggestions and help to get through this. Comments welcome(are much needed).

A writer I once knew
Asked me to write ‘hearts-out’.
The concept was always new.
Just, self-doubt.

I knew I was lost.
I blamed it on the dark.
I should bear the cost.
It was me, who missed the mark.

This is supposed to be 
Poetry of emotional dearth.
Under this tree
Only Shadows sing about mirth.

Heart and darkness undergoing a bout
My words never saw the light of the day.
To liberate ‘Inside Words’ is hearts-out
Rusting, I figured out. Well, that’s the pay!

just barath,

Advertisements

To Maple

We felt fountains of darkness flow on our bodies.
A state of challenging coldness,
Not the brain, but the mind got hypothermic.
It was a moment when love was the Only Light,
Every other second, love was that first apple.

Immortality at grasp, words became pawns.
Infinity for few seconds, all our remaining years were compensated.
Intuition was all lucy’fied.

To cafune.
To caress.
To lock.
To still.
To get out.
To live.. we decided.

It was outside the unity of time.
An A minor and an F.
An Alleregretto was overlooked and stayed away from.

It never marched to the unity of place.
This bed could have been the other side, I promised to meet her, last time.

It did not heed to the unity of action
We don’t believe in anything completely, ever.
All lasted, until the second, her hand hovered over my shoulder.
I believed in the ambiguity she was.

Electric impulses started trotting,
It was by the usual route
But, slower.

And what followed was the world’s most beautiful cliche..

This abyss
stripped us of our doubts.
What I couldn’t tell in light,
I stammered through all night.

We were lying.
We weren’t lying.

The curtains and spreads still hold on to that dark night.
They still howl it to us through the winnowing winds.

just barath

To follow the other poems of the series:
To Miss.Autumn
To my fall
To my St.Martins Summer

To my St.Martins Summer

We were always ahead in time.

We were there in my dreams that I had after watching that movie.
A dream that I dont remember that much.
A dream where someone asked you “Who, he?

We talked to each other in our minds minutes before our eyes met.
A Random Sun rise.
Where love can never set.

We skywalked all the Roads of Frost,
The paper version and
Every signboard that asked for a Diversion.

We doubted us before the crisis even began.
We are nothing but a pair of Lunatics.
We should drop that book
Or set our thoughts on the silent brook.

We argued about oblivion when that leaf fell down.
Overlooking every single time..
Maybe, We should enjoy the moment and frown.

We drifted apart before that wave hit our sail.
Such shooting stars we were.

Momentary,
just for this galaxy.
Also Infinitive,
For we have not seen all the galaxies.

Ahead,
looking at the humane mess
Also lazy,
Two kisses instead of one
Could have saved us all the mess!

just Barath ©

P.s.- St Martin’s summer is
a period of unusually warm weather in the late autumn, especially early November.
Oh! Me and my muse are overlooking November by this month itself.

The next one-

To Maple

One, one person

image

“Chai, chai”, the dirty, uninteresting tea vendor was shouting by the Railway Station. But he was interesting to just one person in the entire crowd. One, one person. He checked his purse. Counted the last 2 rupee coin and it summed up to 17 rupees. He looked for the uninteresting tea vendor, who was long gone. Long gone into the crowd filled with many one persons, 17 rupees and black pens.

Little did his supporters realise that 17 rupees and unquenchable dreams are an irremovable part of him and his unique, impractical race.

They tried consoling him with words when only  shoulders and lies can save him. They tried giving him luncheons when only spiral notebooks and Writing softwares can save him and Yes! By law of nature he knows he will consider it stupid in a few days. They tried making him joyous by appreciating every little step he took when only he could see his skill rotting.

He remembers lots of things, even things which he wants to forget. And that gave him Words (Fortunate or Unfortunate, his readers will decide!), and then started a War between his Heart and Mind, a WALK OF SOLITUDE to fucking Neptune.

And still he decided to walk with his 60-year old lean shoes, catching his Branded Low-hip jeans from going down, holding his shoulders high to get hit by every crafted entrances of rooms towards death and also towards his home as he finally bought a cup of coffee from another uninteresting tea vendor with his Ticket Amount. He wanted to write when he reaches home with a pen that he had to shake well in-between 27 words to be precise,,,

-just barath
“©”(This is the funny bone’s work)

A person who writes

Yes. This post is going to be about me. I don’t know why! I have been not able to get my first word out. Will try to write more often henceforth.. Barath, called just Barath here mainly because I don’t have a second name and I am always asked online to tell my second name. Is this post going to be a stupid SWOT analysis? I can’t tell if it is going to be just that. This is going to be an important post for me, because it would always show me where I started later when I re-read it for the nth time. On a first look and if I am lucky your second gaze. I might be the super-coolest, careless, laziest and nerdish guy next door to you. But you got only 4/a googol. On a quest of concealing all my other already identified, awesome superpowers from the world, I am finding something else one after another in simple conversations itself.

And That’s not it. What am I actually doing with my life on this November 15, 2016, 9:o1 P.M., Hurrah! I am wasting it in always ways ever invented. But I am consoling myself telling to my heart that “Ok! All this is happening for a reason, for a greater good. Things will change.” Oh! How really philosophical I have changed myself into and I can’t find any reason.

And also this is happening nowadays. I have started writing some fictitious incidents (Seriously Fictitious) and people end up asking me “Don’t lie. When did this Happen?” “I was with you all the time, when the hell did this Happen?”

This is my explanation.
Only for this time. She WAS real, the scars ARE real, and there IS no pain. I have got lot of others things to feel happy about and some other serious things to worry about. And I am not facing it, neither am I running away from it. I am letting it grow undisturbed. This is my BEING MYSELF theory, procrastinating it. I smile, I laugh, I try to be un-sarcastic and I try to be me at all times. But, But, But… I dwell in a dual world, THE APPARENT and THE HIDDEN. The words, fortunately are from the HIDDEN, UNPERTURBED world. So you can believe in it after you get a clear picture of what I really tried to say.

I am clearly confusing you. If you are confused only a little. WELCOME TO MY WORLD, Old Sport. If you are a lot confused, don’t worry, there is always a next time. (This is my personal favorite line, an allusion to one of GVM’s recent Facebook Post).

The reason behind me wanting to write is.. I guess I have met a fair share of diverse people these days of my life. I might have met even different people before, but I started noticing the large scale difference, only after I started to write. And it feels so good (The other way around too!). Each person I remember meeting gave me a story. These stories are only for me, friend… not for you.

If you find a Human who thinks himself as A Jack of All Trades (But isn’t so), a writer, a sloth, a dreamer, a Rebel, the final piece to a Jigsaw puzzle that gets lost always, a Sarcastic’ist, whose soul animal might be a Panda or FANG, Hagrid’s pet dog in Harry Potter … he responds to the name Just Barath. Say Hi, and he gets a different story and he will try to write to you a lot too.

P.s. – Be wise. A person who writes, can live anyway he wants. He does not wear any masks. So you can believe him. But you have to decide if you actually want to listen to your mind’s voice reading his words. Remember, He can be a PETER VAN HOUTEN (A Character from Fault in our Stars. Do care to watch the movie or read the book if you haven’t). Its not an advise.

Cheers to an Imperfectly Beautiful Life ¡