Source Of Light

Enclosed within this cubical,
I refused to witness the reality.

I developed wings to fly and strength to fight,
And only needed to channel my skills rightly.

But forgot to unlock the doors of my mind,
Rather, I lacked faith that I could explore too.

My mind, a tesseract, never let my thoughts flow,
From the walls of the smaller cube to the larger one.

Ideas of the ones who depicted success inspired me,
While I still felt, I lived a fruitless life.

The ones I believed would lead me to the light,
Had lost hope in destiny and gone astray.

I realised that I required a light source,
A power station to uplift me.

My tesseract halted before a lighthouse,
Which awaited its arrival as well!

Ray of light then beamed into the tesseract,
To awaken its internal source of light.

A source that led to the path of God,
Avid realisation and core actualisation.

The light overpowered the darkness,
And ‘night’ only implied a calmer half of the day.


Canvas Scripter

He, the undaunted painted my story,
On a canvas so big that no one could really tell its glory.

He made me believe that I led my tale,
Little did I know, he was the one behind the veil.

He scripted the plot for me to grow,
But also granted me will that was free from all flow.

Sooner I realised how mighty I had become,
For my will would never show the wrongs I had done.

Tempted, I stepped into the vicious traps,
But he pulled me out and set me on his path.

I sure did forget my way and purpose,
But he certainly knew what he had set me out to do.

He wrote and overwrote those parts,
Where I had fallen a prey.

And gave me a chance to improve,
Suppress my inner demons and pray.

I’m now certain that he’s my master, the creator,
His path is the only one I must walk.

There are still times when I tend to change my track,
But he relentlessly paints those patches again,
So I never start from the scratch.

Space OCD

Knotted with weird obsessions,
Too much work and no time for a vacation.

Floating within the dilemma
Of what’s perfect and what isn’t.

All we needed was a prism
And not this brain’s prison.

It feels like being in a space suit,
Without the provision for ventilation.

The constant visuals run and rapidly,
Leaving the mind on the brink to explode.

Unable to get hold of thoughts and control,
While it’s nobody else but the mind who’s its own troll.

Often spaced out on productivity,
Cos’ the OCD keeps us busy.

It’s the odyssey through the OCD,
That keeps us occupied.

It’s like a racecar in full speed,
Which won’t stop anytime soon or even take easy.


Across a tall stack of files, he’s been sitting
Glued to his chair masking his distress.

Targets to achieve in that deadline for which,
he’d decide to keep his life on the line.

He’d work so hard for God knows what!
And wished he knew a lovely mistress.

He’d warm the seat through the day,
Helpless, unable to escape from his cabin.

Incarcerated for twelve hours a day,
Weekends seemed to be the end of his life.

Just one more case to go,” he’d think,
Just before his boss would send
another tower of files on his table.

Being in that position was indeed,
full of prestige and power.

Although, Man had not noticed,
He’d forgotten to take shower.

The scheme to work productively,
Was nothing but just a scam.

It was said that his big brains paid him well,
Little did they know his big head wasn’t nice.
It was a head full of lice!

People bowed to him,
But even better with their backs at him.

He only knew not to slack,
But never the smart working hack!