A muffled scream

What is there to love,
In me or anyone else
I grudge you not your indifference
I’d just rather you hate me instead


I’ve been lower before and I’m still here
This life wouldn’t give up, there’s nothing left to kill
It’s not because I think I’ll win, I don't give a damn
It’s just that giving up is harder still


What is there to love,
In you or anyone else
I hate not your scars
I’d rather love you instead


You like to laugh,
I don’t mind your jeers
But don’t cry for me,
I can’t ignore your tears


To you who still loves me
I’ll keep giving you reasons to not
You deserve a better prize at the end
But I’m afraid, I’m all I’ve got


To the rest, the doors have closed
There's nothing in my sould I want you to see
I'll hate you forever and walk into the dark
Would still be nice if you'd walk with me

Lost

I shivered, did I not
As the first drop fell
As the trees grew louder
And the earth grew a smell
As lightning burst overhead
I shivered, did I not
As I saw the place of horrors
Where I knew my body would rot

The tallest trees, with vengence full
The longest snakes, as black as lies
The cold night and the wet grass
My last resort, to close my eyes






I smiled did I not
As I saw her face
Remembered the girl I loved
Remembered better, lighter days
And in my mind the sun grew tall
And birds chirped on those magic trees
A river called out from far away
Like music through the golden breeze

I opened my eyes, it was still night
I spread my arms and looked up at the rain
I shivered and smiled and hugged the cold
I closed my eyes so she could find me again

Just another song I wrote

Tomorrow, or maybe day after we go back to our lives. We make songs, tell stories, work on software, tally accounts. . . . . Today, people killed, people died. People who were willing to die died, people who were just living died. Tomorrow, we'll write songs.

There's something wrong.

There is a reason in this world that makes people want to kill. But they're not killing people, they're killing hidus, muslims, christians, Indians, americans. They're not killing people but people are dying.

There's something wrong.

We're watching on tv as a reporter comes, opens an ambulance and lifts a head to show us a mangled face. We comment but we keep watching. Here's a little girl's shoe with blood in it but no little girl. What a shot. Reality TV at it's best.

There's something wrong.

I do nothing. There's nothing I can do. I haven't lived my life well enough to. Perhaps one of the people who died would have done something if I'd been killed but who knows. Lives were cut short, their songs will never be sung, their stories never told. Unless and until they had lived their lives already all they are are 78 people. Six billion people will watch their dead bodies on the news and move on.

There's something wrong.

There will be calls of congratulations today. News channels will be watched with smile. The masterminds will smile. The killers will be heroes. There will be honoured by the only people they care about. They killed people who ran softwares, told stories, wrote songs.

There's something very fucking wrong.

It will keep happening. Because there's a reason.
Worse things have happened.
It's a part of the spectrum I'll never understand.
I'll keep writing songs.
We'll all keep wanting the high flat and the long car.
There's a reason.
Nothing I can do.
sevent eight people died.

Perhaps they were the lucky ones.

Apologies to the chinese general

For want of a look a smile was lost, for want of a smile a hello was lost, for want of a hello a hug was lost, for want of a hug the feeling was lost, for want of a feeling the soul was lost, for want of a soul my love was lost

And she sings

Wicked games on the six string, life can wait
I want to listen, let me go
Tell me time will stand still, and all will be forgotten
Tell me please, that it can be so

Like a little boy I knew in days gone past
I dream of love and try to believe
But a man I met just yesterday
Speaks of doubt and refuses to leave

Like two lonely hearts talking late into the night
I close my eyes and refuse to see
Like the morning sun, I burn, but only myself
Keeping a secret that should not be

Like a child who’s just learnt to talk
The heart knows what it wants and it tells me so
Like the parent who regrets teaching speech
I shake my head, but the kid just won’t let go

Wicked games, I can play no more
Time moves on and memories are still true
I shake my head, the heart will move on
And she sings “I don’t want to fall in love with you”

** Written after watching Dilana (looking back this post should probably be titled 'an ode to dilana') and Magni perform a cover of Chris Isaac's wicked games. Youtube. Go watch, while I try and find a way to depose Magni and be next to my love. Oh wait . . . no passport. Damn.

A hug for a friend

Just when the perfect melody was about to come, the string broke. It stayed in my heart and I can hear it, . . . . almost. I put the guitar away and I looked up to the thousand stars and the two moons, to the little shape that didn't make sense and thought of life, that didn't make sense either. The tears came. . . . almost, they stayed right at the edge telling me, they were there if I needed them. But I didn't, I was me, I was strong. Visions of you on a motorcycle driveby and through the broken wave the voices say it will be allright. The voices care and that helps . . . .

Days have gone by. That perfect song is back, notes put together in a way that is so mine it almost spells my name. I look at the guitar in the corner and I realize maybe I don't even need it anymore. Can I sing, do I dare? My throat has been hurt before in its attempts to sing the songs that it thought it was meant to sing. I try. The voices around me whisper harmonies of encouragement and when I finally let go of my voice the song sounds like I always knew it was meant to. I sit down and the voices sit behind me facing away but looking at me through the mirrors of their wishes. I look up, all the little shapes make sense now. I cry, I don't need the tear either.

Maths and other issues

Times change
Here I am, I’ve forsaken my friend the pen for these twenty six letters in this weird arrangement
Qwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnm
Ok, that was fun but I miss the pen, the paper, the possibilities. Pretty much same deal happening here but ..... you know. And now this mechanical electronic thing has becomea habit, and habits, as every blood coughing smoke exhaling chappy will tell you, are hard to break.
There’s another habit I have........ cribbing.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m an optimist, I’m so much of an optimist that I want life to be perfect, I don’t see why it cant and so I carefully ponder the few twelve million or so things that stand between me and the perfect life.
Ah, issues.
I remember early issues, homework, balls getting lost, getting into above eighteen films, making the next level in contra, getting the one wheelie bicycle jump going (for the record, ouch, ouch, ouch and then…… whatever, I’m sure it looks cooler then it feels), making sure no one saw me as I air guitared away to swamp thing with my bat, making the school cricket team, making sure the school team was well hydrated as the water boy, wanting to make a huge score in the first match I got to play, wanting to learn black magic to get that pompous dancing twit who skittled our team for nine runs, I mean, what kind of name is sreeshant anyway. Then there was maths and I’m going to stop there because no issue tops that.
Ooh wait, girls.
Anyway, I remember as a kid I used to hate grown ups saying, “enjoy this time kiddo, these are the best days of your life” and I used to think “just wait you cheek pulling, cheap birthday gift giving fatties. When I grow up I’m going to know what a cool allowed to drive-can stay out all night-no homework phase of life it is."
Well, that’s partially true, guess am not really grown up but I dig this extended adolescence. Maths is still a big issue and I still don’t understand how I can work it out. The I-pod touch costs 17000, the mac air is 92000, the cool shoes are 5400, other stuff totals 94000 and I have 72 rupees left over after budgeting the ladakh trip..…….Never could figure out how to work those numbers.
Good news, the pimples are gone, dimples still didn’t come. Stopped worrying about the growing hair, now worrying about the falling hair. Stopped worrying about the height, now worrying about the slouch. The cracking voice grew sexy enough but it cant do sweet chaiaiai…aiaiaiai…ld of mine. . . . . ah well.
Hopefully, a few years down the line, with a cool job playing singing or writing or giving water to a cricket team, with good friends (ah God bless good friends), and with contra finally conquered I might just be able to fulfill the promise to self and proclaim that being grown up is the coolest phase of your life.
Now if only I could figure that sum out.
72 rupees log 22 = Packet of ultramilds + 8

Now maybe if we apply pthagorous and the integrate and then use a variable constant...........

………. Ah well, at least I got the number of letters right.
.........Please tell me I at least got the number of friggin letters right
.......... Ok I counted, I did, ha ha