d crap"dom" king writes again..

“Women came in and went out of his life like spring blossoms. He never gave a second look to anyone potentially special. But then, the only august daisy he cared bout, wasn't meant for him. The unbridled love bubbling like a hot spring; ready to erupt into a geyser; all assembled in his tiny love cage was never appreciated or recognized. The highway rush was heavy, but nevertheless; it was a one way traffic. Every now and then, he was thrust into dim lit tunnels without a ray of light shining and guiding him through. It was just the faith that he was on his way; the right way to meet his august daisy drove him out his fears and hesitation right through the tunnel. But alas, he found his daisy in someone else's hand.”

Just another piece of constipated writing as expected from me !! Shame on me. Every single time I begin writing something out of my mind, I end up writing from the bottom my bloody soaked up heart. Trust me, this heart ain't soaked up with my tears, but with the tears of others sympathizing a perfectly normal heartbreak; which “I” molded to fit in the frame of a losers cribbing and pathetic existence. And, in the end I begin writing about princesses, knights, demons ,an over jargoned journal of a loser, punctuated here and there with colons to impress and words which better suit the dictionary rather than the real life.

“Get on over it, you silly ass.”, thats what I say to myself and forget just that whenever I'm drunk. “Why do you drink so much ,Abhi?”, asked my silly simpering colleagues. I said,”To forget a certain rose, for I have seen the rose as well as her thorns”. Bullshit, its all crappy words to impress.
Yes, i admit; it started just like that. But now, that poison has become my LSD. I drink because i LOVE to drink. Thats all to that. To hell with memories, I love whiskey.

My evenings start with the stupidity of putting down my continued “stupidity” in words, just like any other writer specially of the inferior sex; writing their first book would do. The difference is, I know I'm stupid. Just notice my pages, you wont find the difference though. I still start my sentences with “I” and end in “me”. Where is the perspective in my bloody writing ?. Its all me and me and me. Then I realized, its better to bring up a HE to disguise the ME. Unfortunately, that HE took over ME and my stories. So I am back into ME. But, this time time I promise, I will not use the jargons and words that mean shit to the average reader; but will concentrate on the flow.

“Ya, Ok I suck..wheres ma whiskey????”. The last drop of whisky makes you allways feel back on the road of reality, and reality never haunts me. The worst mistake my life has ever done, is to let me live. And, what doesn't kill me, makes me strong. I am bloody strong. I need not live in booze and memories. Instead, I can mock at them. And, thats where lies my intentions as of with this book.

to crib....

Cribbing bout pressures which lead to a certain or a string of failures seems so absurd at times, yet so common a practice for others. Often it so happens, cribbing is a personal choice you succumb to rather than choose. He has been around guys with a theory behind everything, even failures which they knew was inevitable. He couldn’t be one of them. He wasn’t even the guy who would go for a kill and win his success; though talented he was in his own way. But then, the talents defining him were useless without the zeal to go on. All he had was a natural talent to “move” on. He was the wine and everyplace he went was his unholy grail.



A sojourner without a mission,

A scavenger without an ocean,

A gypsy without a band,

A stubborn waste without a helping hand,



He moved from place to place,

Searching for a certain kill,

Sliding down emotions,

And time stood still.



Mission bell too loud,

Yes, he has a mission,

Yet nothing to make him proud.

Suicidal gypsy and an ardent scout.



Smoky minutes and fluid nights,

Sudden shudders and flight of frights.

The question still haunts,

“Do I deserve what I sight?”



The present wears a smile,

A bit too fragile,

Weeds on his coming dawns,

While half lit memory haunts.

Talons of fear...

Scared to death he lived like panthers on his trail; running around bushes through the dim lit woods right from his birth. The fear wasn’t inbuilt but certainly a consequence of the prosaic but subjugating burden of expectations flowing down the hierarchy. Time to time; the rebel rose to fight, but succumbed to the monotone. He was four and was scared of school for the first time. He is twenty-four and is still scared, because the school and the education and the fear haven’t left him yet. The polished high priced education has converted him into a machine to deliver and none to gather, the petals of the flower he calls his own desire. There’s no more a bud. He saw his flower of desires grow but a few vital petals sort of completion.

He remembers the day. It was cloudy, about to rain in an hour or so. The trees seemed like giants with arms raised in sync to cover the windless sky. It didn’t matter much to the kid. He wasn’t interested in the sky. His eyes were set on the basketball on the playground; a vagabond rolling in the restless breeze. It occurred to him; if and only if the ball was made of stone or steel it might not stray away. What seems a rather childish observation makes him think even today. Roll we may in the winds of time, but do we want to. Or do we roll in fear of being dubbed a misnomer. He can never be the stone neither the steel. He began to hate his life, for everything he couldn’t do right.

They say “I live in a world of my own”, but none of them is a Picasso or Keats. All they do is live in a world where they can call things their own. That doesn’t at all make them unique, rather another class of hypocrites who make lies sound real. He couldn’t even be one of them. He isn’t scared of the world, neither the creatures they call humans, but a chill runs down his shaky spine when someone whispers “life” in his ears. He has none left to rejoice. He has found a bucket full of talents in him, but none to shape into reality, for he is scared; that might dub him an outcast.

And all he wanted to do was drive along the country highways, give a damn to the milestones, be blind to roadside directions, crush a few beer cans, fill up forgotten words of CCR with silly hums, be happy with the wet earth pillow and swear to the heavens for giving others a dull “I’m happy, I guess” or a “I’m fine” life. The prisoners locked in their self made cells.