Artists Budding artists Failed artists Successful artists - Whatever that means Are hungry beings, They crave Whatnot. A match stick lightens Their gut And mind you Not one but countless Such matchsticks At a moment At different moments Throughout their life - Whatever that means Burn them from within Until the fire Either spills out Or Blasts out Of Ways they want Or they might not want As well. But this fire Is like those burning In temples since ages Protected in glass by People's beliefs Proclaiming itself as an Immortal specimen of Somebody. Here, the artist is that Somebody, you know. The glass, I would like To say is, What the artists seeks From the world In the form of a Protection - He could protect himself Forever But not all artists Can do that, Not until a moment Of utter liberation. Till then, I believe, Or would want to believe The artist keeps churning Within, And then Someday steps in A glass. Who is there fo...
I am not the Haley’s comet, you know. Though I wish I were. What control it has over its trajectory; comes and goes at a fixed time only. And so are almost all the celestial bodies; attuned to a timing of their own; unlike me. I am, instead, a gun of random asteroids, or debris; frivolous objects zipping into the dark. They are breakable to the tiniest of particles, as if stubborn to die, fighting mortality; like me. You tell me: does this explain my predicament? - 2019