Hyperbolic

To tell a tale is a gift not everyone had been blessed with. As a budding writer, I take a great pride in boasting such experience. But what about those who are set to boast, to weave a story to get your business running, to keep your esteem soaring? Yes, I'm talking about you, everyone of you out there including me. 

We sit to talk our lives together. I am deeply interested to listen to you speak about the past. Nothing would be more thrilling than a real story, a part of one's life, a set of those dots which when connected back, make a beautiful art out of it. But, what if you are busy weaving a tale? What if you are trying to showcase that you had a wonderful life, besides being normal? I would have appreciated your creations and applauded at it, given the fact that I believed it to be real. However, think of the life you are describing it to be. How far had it been to the reality? 

The fact that your body speaks more than your mouth, literally, your actions speaking more than your words, often giving it away, the truth that you're being hyperbolic. Not that I would point out to the flaws, but think of trying to create an account that is not yours. The very purpose of getting together to understand each other is completely being broken. Depending upon your intellectual quotient, the foolishness of your tale comes over. So, you tell me a hyperbolic tale to make me feel enchanted, jealous that you were digging grounds for cashews and almonds while I was plainly boiling my lentils. Very well, as far as my trust is concerned. But, isn't being yourself important?

 
It really lowers you in my eyes to see you boasting. It is not attractive, sexy or the least, making me feel good. It shall depress you that day, into a deep pit, the day you shall realize that you need to cling onto the story just because you blurted it out one day, in the desperate attempt to make your life seem like a Tolkien 's adventure. Contrary to it, think again about telling me what really happened. It may not elevate your personality in my view, but lets me see who you really are. I shall realize the utter beauty of simplicity. I shall share my own life with you. And that, my friend, is the essential purpose of getting together. 

Boast not about being awesome, to fill me with awe. Be the one who you ought to be. Be the one you are. Undo all the filtering masks that veil your life. And that would be when, you live, literally, not figuratively.

A tribute to J.R.R. Tolkien

Three books for all the beings under the sky, 

seven for the special nerds Tolkienism prone, 

nine set out as a company doomed to die, 

one ring into the mount doom to be thrown, 

in a land beyond borders, what a beautiful lie!!!

One author to write them all, one mind to lure them, 

one dreamer to bring them all, and in fantasy bind them,

in a land beyond borders, what an enthralling lie!!!

The opener

There is a soul in you, in me, in every being that shall ever be.
That one untouched being ever free, veiled by many satin hard to see.
The coal is alive fogged by the smoke, a being by any weapon shall never be broke.
Open the window, the wind shall gently stroke, and such freedom shall be revoke.

The soul knows alike, the bright and dark, that a poem is indeed a random ink mark.
Such soul shall see the beauty stark, that every other soul in the world has a spark.
Love shall bloom like roses in dew, and the spring will be back anew.
Our body hosts the soul for years very few, let it sail being the good crew.

UniversaLibra

Some build marvels in the sand,
some grow weeds in fertile land,
some cut down trees to make pages,
and on afforestation some's poem rages,
some fly in the air across the globe,
some across every nook of an island probe,
some dig up the earth for mummy remains,
and some to relieve dearest of worldly pains,
some run to melt down the junky fat,
some stare and starve like a striped cat,
some dance and sing and make the song,
and some thrive for joys all life long,
some hunt for elixir in the deserts,
some hunt for elixir in the desserts,
some live life like you only live once,
and some live like they are the immortal ones,
some crave for soft chairs and water beds,
some for clothes blues or reds,
some live on medicines for near and dear,
and some entangled in the death's fear,
some wait for life to pass them over,
some to help their family burdens lower,
some are alive to torment their fellows,
and some to share with all, their mellows,
every human life on earth has a reason,
some of brotherhood some of treason,
but are most lives veiled by the valance,
such is the mother nature's humanitarian balance. 

A monday morning

As the sun soared in the east on a Monday, a man prayed in the waters for his daughter's feast,
A daughter far away in a land cared for the least, as his bread soaked in the yeast.
Back amidst buildings reaching the skies, his yards wavered to where his bed lies,
And he picked up his bread waving away flies, and comforted his heart with buttery lies.

Honey dripped from the fresh bread, and the phone prayed to be read,
He no more embraced fear and dread, his eyes no more swollen red.
On a holiday after he resigned, running from that life where he whined,
His stars in dreams he realigned, and like a child's his eyes shined.

Bossing the people not his kith and kin, tons of false respect did he win,
Far from his tents and camels and gin, with a golden tooth did he grin?
His wives waited chatting in the heat; his daughters did the western culture meet,
His sons sumptuously gleamed over red meat, but his absence made bitter such sweet.

One father far from his girl, ran all the day that giant swirl,
One youth far from the working whirl, in and into emptiness did pearls hurl.
One veiled man far from children put his minds to let the resort run,
They got the best beef and bun, but their life was not the real fun.

Like its rice like its noodle like its chai,
Lacking life on a Monday morning existed Dubai.