The Inner Demon

It howled at night in the pitch-black jungle.
It wanted to spring upon its prey,
Upon hearing the prayer.
Oh! It was a calling.

It possessed the man to commit the act.
The possession is real, oh, it's true!
The urge is real, the thirst too.
He's a conniving man now!

He turned towards the moon and smiled.
He pulled his claws and wings out,
And flew towards the moon.
Oh, the beast it was.

He got hold of a branch and moved forward;
Branch by branch and tree by tree; 
Moved till the end of the trees.
At the sight of lotus pond.

He stretched to grab the flower he loved.
In the water, when he saw himself.
Astonished, at his reflection.
For the Demon he was.

All along the way, was I always a demon?
Is my bad myself as the good is me?
Am I demon to act the thought?
Is the good thought-not-act?

He growled and cried for his own reflection.
The guilt killed his mind, ah, the tears.
The appearance too; unwatchable!
Turn me back! He growled.

But can he? Or will he change the act done?
The devilish deed and demonish greed.
The wantings of urge and pure need.
Now he is all the demon's feed.

The demon jumped out, sprung out from him.
Left him crying at the pond, laughing hard.
The man on his knees, crying out loud.
But would he know it left?

Would he ever again dare to see in the pond?
Could he ever have a glance at himself?
Will he realise that it was not him?
That it was the demon.

And the demon? Just part of his mind's jungle.
The one that hides and attacks when called.
The actions! It possesses them hard.
The thoughts however, not!

It is the thoughts that call it out to act open.
The man could have controlled the call.
But did he? He gave himself to it.
He sold the soul to the demon.

Now he gets what he asked for, the eternal guilt.
The burden of the thought; that unasked act.
That could have passed away; the thought.
But it did turn into an act.
The unforgettable.
The un-passable.
Quite natural.
But still is,
Is never.
No, No.

The White Rose of Mary Garden

I belong to Mary garden,
The garden of beautiful roses,
Many are red, while one is white,
The red roses thought the white is special,
The white thought she didn't have the colour,
Every time we all grow a flower,
The gardener comes to take us all over,
He took many red, but didn't chose me much,
I thought I was not just upto the mark,
I grew flowers and then they die and fall,
No use of me like all the red flowers,
But fortunately, I was always treated equal,
Gardener loved me, he always kept me special,
I wanted all that red roses had,
Put in the normal ground with all the crowd,
Little did the gardener knew I was lonely,
He always thought I was charmingly lovely,
Neither he allowed anyone to touch me,
Nor he gave me that regular treatment,
For all I knew, I was just getting loner,
A few red roses loved me for my charm,
Then there were many that totally hated me,
I started growing weak with all that in me,
Mentally and physically, I was falling apart,
The gardener tried saving me,
But the poor didn't knew it all,
I am just a plant and I will die like all,
I tried to make flowers but I failed always,
Growing innocent that I will grow one day,
My little red friends also believed in me,
Always pushed me to get that extra mile,
I didn't want to disappoint anyone,
Pushed it harder to every ounce in me,
Unluckily for me, I didn't knew my power,
Either it was a boon or just a ban,
I realised I shouldn't have tried to know it,
When I didn't knew, I was "The White Rose,"
After I know it's all just a prose,
I died in the process just trying to bloom,
Now that I am dead, I can see it clear,
Dumb that I thought, I was the only white,
For now I know we are all coloured different,
Different and Beautiful, all over mesmerizing,
We all be born and die some day,
We all are treated equal and special,
You just need to see world from a different view,
Then you can fly and be out of the blue,
Wait the story isn't over! I did that too,
But how did I die, wasn't I supposed to live,
The red roses as I call them are all alive,
They all saw themselves normal and didn't reinvent,
or I was just a fool to think I could be any different

Oh mighty hawk! Where did you go?

In the middle, in the middle
Where did you go?
Leaving me here,
Oh, mighty hawk, where did you go?

Come to me, come back.
Oh, dear mighty hawk!
For there is something at lack,
Without your talk.

Looking at the people,
In their busy lives,
I think I might tremble.
Are you roaming with your wives?

You were inside me,
When I needed you the most.
You showed me a way to see.
Without you I’m just a ghost.

How can you leave me?
In this faceless jungle.
Jungle with no trees or bees,
Filled with people who are very terrible.

Please, dear mighty hawk,
Come back to me,
For there is no one here to talk,
Only a waterless sea.

Hopeless bricks and ice cream sticks,
All around the world nothing but tricks.
You flew away from me when you saw those pricks,
With ties, and suits, these corporate dicks.

Where did you go?
Oh, mighty hawk!
Did it hurt your ego?
By their bad talk?

I lost you long ago,
But I cannot forgo.
In the search of my lost ego,
I set foot, ergo!

Did you leave yourself,
In the quest for something else?
Where are you now, why are you now? 
Have you any understanding of who are you now?

Learn poetry writing with these simple steps

Poetry, a beautiful form of writing which everyone adores, right? Sounds intellectual, feels lovely! Oh, what a wonder is a poetry!

Oops! I started writing poetry by mistake 😃. Once one starts writing poetry it’s hard to stop. Because once we explore the beauty of poetry, it is hard to ignore. True that, who am I to tell this?

To begin with, I am definitely not a brilliant writer but I have been writing poetry for many years now. That being said, I think I can share you some of my personal tips, if you are willing to write an amazing poetry, especially for beginners.

So, let’s get into the topic. Firstly, to write anything, it is important that we understand what form and tone of writing is ours. One definitely can experiment with these but there might be something that is your strong point. Utilise the same to create a poetry. But if we do not write one before knowing the tone, how can we even explore what’s our style?

I meant to say that you may write small phrases or stories or quotes or anything else so that you can understand what your style is.

Now that you know what your style is, sit and start writing something.

What do I write about?

If you are a beginner, keep it simple! You don’t have to write brilliant things to make your poetry wonderful. Poetry is about emotions and opinions. In laymen words, if you are willing to write about feeling dizzy, make sure your readers also feel dizzy when they are reading your poetry.

How to write a poetry?

There is a misconception that if you are writing a poetry, it has to rhyme on every sentence. But that’s not true. You must definitely read about different forms of poetry writing to understand this part.

Simple tips to write a poetry

This all sounded a little easier said than done type right? Don’t worry, I have got you covered!

Remember these points while you are a poetry

Avoid writing cliches!

Make it understandable

Keep it creative

Use the magic of words

Play with the imagination of reader

Keep your motive clear

It is definitely not as simple as it sounds but once you get your flow, nothing can stop you.

One shall definitely make mistakes but remember there is nothing like a perfect piece of writing!

To learn more about content writing, read this

If help, be it education!

Shining eyes, beautiful heart, there she was,

With skin muddy and dress tidy walking towards me,

Pit in her stomach and dirt in her nails,

Yet all I could see was those shining eyes,

With will and wish in her, she asked me something,

I could have given her what she needed,

I could have even given hunger a small pause,

But what I thought was to give her better,

Too her somewhere that was close to my heart,

A place which nurtured and made me strong,

Place filled with people, love, empathy, and strength,

She held my hand tight and said I am afraid,

I showed her one woman with a wide smile,

That woman opened her hands for this girl,

Come here! We are all here for each other, together,

See, this is your class and here is your uniform,

That was the moment, my soul relaxed,

She was happy and those shining eyes started crying,

I could happily rest in peace now, 100th girl to join our school,

Nothing is a bigger work than educating someone,

Giving them a platform to stand for themselves,

To walk fearless and wear a sense of dignity,

Dignity of not money but of the power to live,

To chose a life they have always dreamt of,

From the life I have lived and people I walked through,

It is you who can make your life beautiful,

Charity be a thing with a word substituted as help,

Will I walk in right lane, money and food won’t decide,

Right education can sculpt a persons’ life,

The shape it never seen, the shape of heights,

To the hall of less misery, the hall of future,

Education is much more than what it looks,

A beautiful energy that builds you high,

A drive that takes to the heights of sky.

Quest and Crusade Of Manu, II

Chapter two: The dreamland

Click here for the Chapter one of Quest and Crusade of Manu

Manu walked towards the north as it was on the top.
Soon he might end up with a pair of steps,
that led him so top, to the skies and gods.
Never did he rest, except to quench his thirst,
meat he did not eat and survived on the fruit.
Never did he know that the land was so big,
so big enough than his tribe actually needs.
He was shocked to see a being out of his tribe,
he never knew there existed similar other herds.
He walked into them and greeted them with a smile.
They spoke the language he did not understand.
But his charm spilt out of his smile,
and with no much effort, they treated him nice.
The cattle and the crowd seemed so very good,
so much that he stopped missing his troop.
There was no pyre, no self-killing,
but there was still storms, rain and thunder.
They had no gods and no brute monarch,
not even someone who called himself a priest.
Days had passed through gestures and smile,
soon he understood their ways of communication.
He spoke so lovelily as they were his own,
they treated him great as he was their son.
But soon, the day came when they had to lose their smiles,
the day when Manu woke up with a terrifying squeal.
It was not human, and it was so scary.
It gave him chills, and he felt he was still dreaming.
He closed his eyes, forcefully to go back to slumber.
But he soon was awake again, but this sound was different.
It was sure of human and definitely a cry.
A cry that he had heard when his people died with a disease.
Rushing out of his hut, he saw people gathering.
It made him feel Deja Vu, the horrors of pyre sacrificing.
The gathering was similar, but there was no pyre.
One was lying on the ground tied to a massive stone.
He looked so sad, and the cry was his.
Manu went and inquired in only to lose his minds.
The squeal in the night was of a demon,
the demon that lived high in the mountains
and demands human flesh to maintain their harmony.
Once in a month, they tie-up a person to the cart,
leaving him out of the cave they run back to the herd.
The demon devours the alive man, roars in the filled stomach,
It does not squeal once again till its gut was empty.
Ran from his tribe, passed many miles, changed were the ways,
and different was the language.
But the beliefs and sorrow has never left sight,
it followed Manu and landed in this tribe right.

The shattered earth- Divided and unloved

By- Chandini Kola

Why the borders? Why the hate?
What do you hold in the crate?
Why the blood in the perfumes of the wind?
Why do you make us the bait?
Why the lines of control as the end?
When do we all liberate?
Was this your idea of showing love?
What should we all await?

Flesh and tears for the security?
Love or dominance? Is my debate,
Do you hold power to destiny?
Then what's about this so great?
Gifts you send of a lightless candle,
How do you expect us to celebrate?
A handshake or a little smile,
Tell us what it takes to be a mate,
Bygones are bygones; we are taught,
Then why the borders? Why the hate?

What happiness is in a fight?
After all, can you even walk straight?
Are smiles so rare and serenity so expensive?
Is the world so stagnate?
What is the worth of a crown?
For it is only born to assassinate,
Has the power overruled humanity?
Then why the borders? Why the hate?