The cynic

In the days that were lost
In the nights that are to come
Whores stand by the road
Wanting money for their bums

The meaning of life

In a different world, it's an island. A lonely island but a beautiful one. The sky is of the bluest of shades and the ocean is the most magnificent blue too. The island is vast. And there are trees. Huge trees laden with fruits. The most delicious fruits in the world. I have a mansion, up by the hill. But I am outside right now. The air has the freshest scent of life. And no matter how far I look, the sea goes on. None in sight. Except me, the birds, bees, trees and the island.

Why shouldn't life be this island ....forever, even if it lasts for 1 day. Would money buy that life? Wouldnt one have to work all through one's life to get that kind of money? Then what's the point.

Why do we do what we do? Where are we heading at? To what end? I am so fed up with the mundane bullshit that life serves everyday, that ...................... that nothing. I have nothing better to do than to gobble up the mundanity everyday. That's what I have been trained to do.

The tortoise that lived on a rock

It was a dry hill

No tree in sight

The sun was up scorching

Moonless was the night

The hog grunted nearby

Searching for trash and food

It looked disappointed often

But then drunk up its mood

The lonely lizard lying

Like dead burnt up reptile

And then it would move about

And flattened again in a while

Such was the scene it was

In the neighbourhood of the tortoise

To some it was stupid

To self he was wise

Laying there like a log

He would dream of things great

Wonderful, magical, all those words

Looked over the horizon straight

Years had passed

The tortoise had not moved

Dreaming with wide open eyes

The scorching heat, it soothed

The hill was its friend

The dead lizard his love

The hog was the fun uncle

And the sun blessed from above

The tortoise was bored ,

And yet he loved his friends

Realised they all were dead

Yet wallowed in the trend

The wind blew from the south

Heat and dust it was

Cancerous breeze touched his shell

He gave his stillness a pause

He put out his little head

And checked out his shell

It was hard, it was rock

It rung like a death knell

The protective shell he thanked heartily

For it saved him from hell

Living on the rock was not that easy

But what stories were there to tell?

The bored tortoise decided to move

On to a different rock

But when he tried to do the same

His shell seemed to mock

“Aha!” ,it said ,”Now you move

How dare you worthless creature.

My slave you were; will be ever”

Declared the evil preacher.

The tortoise shrunk back, dumbfounded at this change

The turn events had taken.

Its protector was now its master

The rock seems to be shaking.

But it was too late

For the shell had won .

The tortoise now realised

Its time had come.

It opened its mouth, to try and speak.

But no words came through.

For you see, the tortoise was dead

Long before this poem, I drew.