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Archive for September 2013


By : Prahaas Oldman

At the moment, I carry off myself as a madman, with long hairs that fall over my face and shabby clothes, trying to rhyme up with the character of the artsy person in me. Frankly, to tell the truth, I am quite sick and tired of carrying off myself like this, I mean, this was one character that I never wanted to portray. A few years back, I was the guy who was 'The Guy', I mean, I was bad, mad and what not. In other words, I was cool, today I am everything that is opposite to the mentioned word. I had friends, lot many of them, and I used to hang out, spend my parent's hard earned money, even abused quite a lot and then, at the very moment that I thought life couldn't get any better, life somehow really happened, leaving me surprised, battered and shattered. Although I look at what I think and pen now, comparing to what I thought and penned then, I find that nothing has changed, apart from the fact that, then the writer was the person whom no one
would recognize as a writer, today that very person couldn't be recognized as anybody else other than the writer. 
So, if you'll find me in my mass communication class, I am the guy who doesn't give a fuck, I sit with my legs up on my chair, my views up on my nose, and a bit of residual attitude from the old days. I wear dull shades when it comes to clothes, don't take care of my hairs and during the classes and in between them, you may find me penning down poetry. Poetry of despair, as I term it. But I really wish to be the old me and live my old care free life, but I somehow can't. Feels like I have been chained by the tides of time.
I don't know who clicked this photograph, but I remember this moment so clearly that I tend to call it a perfect capture. This shot displays every bit of my persona of aspiring director, disappointed at the fact that my directions were not being followed in the prescribed manner, giving the scene taking place in front of my eyes, a very disappointing look. I so wanted her to be the best that day.


By : Prahaas Oldman
And of the world that lay collapsed beside me,
Like a whore of the universe, with a painful tale to narrate,
Fallen prey to a bait, yet hopeful that it’s never too late,
To love the shy shadow of the future, come to me,
Like my yet to be born offspring, for I can feel thee,
I can feel you blossoming, within the womb of time,
Impregnated by lust, realized with the cosmos,
Where stars collide and rape the innocent harmony,
Galaxies and the orgies they throw, within the womb,
My child grows, the fetus of beautiful sins, my baby, my baby;
As you struggle through these barricades, the asteroids grow angry,
Collision within collision, a fucked up society, a family of lies,
Aborted happiness slithers upon it’s last breath,
Poems of abuses, songs of screams, prose of cries,
Yet in the womb, my baby grows, yielding it’s wings,
Pushing through the barricades of femininity, I ask,
I strip naked of all doubts and ask, how would you stop thee?
Something that’s not meant to be caged, rather wants to be free,

The last cursed apple on the tree, I tasted thee, I tasted thee.

Tears From The Corridor

By : Prahaas Oldman
Why did you break,
Why did you lay,
Shattered on the sands of time,
Innocent were thee, what was thou crime?
Heinous was it as such,
Why cruelty was imparted upon thee,
Why you stand disheveled, why you stand,
like a ghastly shadow, like an autumn tree,
liveliness, fun, forlic? Thou shalt not witness,
those horrid conflict of emotions, shatter thee,
O’ soul, o ‘ you innocent child, why did you break,
Why did the cradle of life, become your grave,
Why don’t you save yourself, why don’t you save,
What times inflict, let ‘em, bruises shall heal,
No, no, thou shalt not dream, father shall not kneel,
He won’t, he was a lesson of time, hope you learned,
In life he came for a reason, a moral imparted, a moral learnt,
Don’t remember him, thou soul shall burn,
Such burns won’t heal, happiness shall they steal,
And when shall they , hideous memories shall they rain,
And that is why you fear rain, don’t you?
And when droplets fall on your face,
In tears shall they disseminate,
Don’t search, for thou shalt never find,
Thou shalt never find, what you searched for,
Happiness was it? Isn’t it?
God’s puppet were you, you feared Thee,
The more you feared, the more did God feared Thee,
He was the shepherd, you were the sheep,
Now tell, who misguided you?
Did warm hands fool you into it,
Or was it that genuine smile,
Smile that absconded the truth and rhymed,
If not they were, but a thousand lies,
Lies that diverted your life, lies that took no sides,
Cruelly unbiased to the core,
Harsh tides beat my soul to the shore,
A shore where no one resides,
Life’s a calendar of empty days, vacant nights,
Curtains of darkness fall over the windows of light,
Give me the permission mother, for if I might,
I did love to give up this fight,
Disappear out of life’s sight,
How will anyone be cruel to me?
Now shatter my battered soul,
a soul that left no tale untold,
an unloved soul that fell from the skies,
into a world of never ending lies,
lies that thrived in every lane,
lay scribbled on every window pane,
lies that made soul live in shame,
lies that went away, yet back they came,
to haunt men, driving them insane,
and ‘lie’, now my soul shall escape thee,
no matter how hard it may be,
but hardships are something,
the valor of my heart wont see,
for my soul shall be set free,
as if it is a bird,  a dream,
so swift, so fast, that it can tear the world apart,
how would you chase thee, how would you chase thee,
and into a different world shall it fly,
while souls on this planet shall weep,
but proud shall it be for its leap,
a leap of faith, a leap that took everyone’s breath away,
abscond did it, the life that was never meant to be for it,
chained did it sit, in a room, where darkness was lit,
and it darkness did it spread its ings,
taking its last breath,
breath of freedom,  the last breath of the soul,
the soul that left no tale untold,
a soul that escaped, a soul so bold,
of worlds and their folds,
that soul flew into escape,
of it, tales were told, and poems were written,
and what they wrote, believe me, was the partial truth,
realize the pain of a soul singular,
realize the emotions of it,
realize the story of it,


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