I cannot remember a time when my youth was untouched by the waves of reality.

I cannot recall ever playing in the sand building monuments of splendor.

But most of all, I do not remember any kiss on the forehead or bedtime story.

Although there are somethings I do remember, I remember them everyday.

I remember my mother being torn from my grasp and I cannot convey my agony.

I remember my father murdering my childhood joys.

There is one last thing I cannot remember. Perhaps it has yet to happen.

Or perhaps it is within me now.



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story of a man- story of a father

a man who lives 

in the throp since he exist 

studying at noon

couldn't think of moon


home wasn't massy

but a family lived there naturally

at the age of twenty

he belonged to delhi

where started doing

everything he could


after some time

met some one of his life time

as the indian culture say

they made a bond of life time


 one, two, three

they became so happy

but still waiting for one baby

as he always believe in god

went to temple,

pray and pray

and he won, maybe again


like every parent, he wanted the same

a normal life for his child

a future of his own name

he struggled, never said no

gave everything whatever asked for

and still giving his treasures

clean drop from the shore


here he is, non stop

he is still working

but in stress with love 

giving his best, strength to us

shining proudly...



Author's Notes/Comments: 

this is story of my papa how he sruggled in his life and what he done for his family. He is great papa :)


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still your daughter.

I wish you understood that
the storm in my eyes is not meant to
strike down your branches but i just have trouble
holding the flood above my palpebral dam and
concealing the darkening and contorted surface of my planet

I wish you understood that
the aftermath was never yours to
rummage through and salvage but instead a mess you
must learn to see from your view and
still hold all the bits and pieces in your arms and call it your daughter

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sun used to shine -my son

what this life is all about?

what we need fulfill

never care about anything around


said "i'm a father

a teacher" but perhaps

couldn't watch over my own crown

my home, my land

never leave this sand for single time

is this the reason?

since sixty five  years i'm here

half for mine, half for yours

but how now i can see full of mine?

when you leave my mind

but never leave my sight


strength was the key 

between you and me

night or day 

no meaning to me

this greybeard man 

how can i see?

is there anything to see?

when thou , my son

no more with me.......




Author's Notes/Comments: 

this poem is about a father who lost his son and calling him his crown as his son was everything to him and he keep on asking himself that why his son died??

well this is not my own made , this happened with my relative, with my uncle( he was heart broken)  and i want to express my feelings......

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My father’s trumpet

My father’s trumpetIn a black box under my parent´s bed is hidden a shiny Golden trumpet,  since I have memory I remember that black box in the same place, there it stays almost all days of the week, every day I see it, is in the same place as always, under my parents bed.

After a hard week of work he goes to his room to play it. He practices almost every weekend, he can stay there for many hours, just playing songs and practicing. He enjoys so much the music, but his trumpet is his most valuable thing, he takes care of it as if it was a baby, he cleans it every time he uses it, and then the trumped goes to the same place, under my parent’s bed. It has to pass one week just for playing the trumpet again. When my father was younger he was a good trumpeter, it was more than a hobby, he tried in many fields and succeeded in some occasions but not at the level he wanted to, so he decided to not continue with that. But now he is really happy with his trumpet, in every chance he has to play he does, every occasion that is appropriate he uses it to play the trumpet. Even if it’s sunny, rainy, cloudy, it doesn’t matter he plays it when he can.  A lot of years have passed since that trumped arrived at my house, it is older than the first daughter than came to the family, many histories that it could tell, but it doesn’t matter how old it is, it has the same sound as when it was new. A lot of travels and histories it has passed thru, now it is in the same place as when I was born, under my parent’s bed. It can be there for many more years and my father will have it even if it doesn’t work anymore. My father loves that trumpet and even if he is not professional but playing it makes him very happy. 

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Two Extremes


Light and Dark 


I am living between two extremes,

Light and dark, you would not believe.

Though a dark mind, I am sweet,

With a soft heart-beat...


Please listen to me,

I want to explain, you see?

Evil and good, a dizzying flight,

Heaven O take me to the upper height.


Heaven is with Azathoth,

The mighty flutist God.

My Father in Heaven Thou art,

I do play my part...

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Some thoughts about darkness and light - evil and good.

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Fool that is ourself~

high expectations are not my cup of tea, people need to stop tryin' to suck the life out of me..

do we return to the memories..? or do they come back to us?

the only person I really want to talk to right now is my father.. but why bother thinking about it.. 

I just want to question him on everything that seems to of passed us by... like the time.. 

or what we will become after wasting away.. after we've deteriorated & our skin is past grey..


slowly paralyzed, fingers first.. trying to figure this out, tying up loose threads.. 

I need to feel alive.. have I been living a lie within my head..?

or am I trapped inside, knowing outside is the reality in which you've been dead.


I could spend the rest of my life in bed, until i've cried enough tears to flood the entire house, both stories.

but wouldn't that just be a waste of potential..? to let the pain push me down, further each day.. 

the weight of nostalgia get's heavier, despite it's dismay..

memories are like an impenetrable fog, & everyone else gets the sunshine on their face.. 

do we all pity the fool, that is ourself..?

Abandoned Child


My brother died,

And in his place;

I was born;

But I was repelled.


My mother threw me from the table,

Abused me, both mind and body.

My father never present,

And if so, he ignored me.

They left each other fast,

'cause mother was a lesbian.

But my father needed a woman,

For his children and as a housewife.


The second was quite alright,

Even if she made me eat axis.

Only my sister I couldn't see,

That became off limits.


After years they had their divorce,

And then came the third, the most terrible.

My wicked stepmother,

The greatest dictator.


She tried to strangle my brother,

Then father did interfere.

She put me in the sanitarium,

With false motives, my fear.


Firstly in a crisis-centra,

'cause I run away from home.

Then in the sanitarium,

Where I for six months did roam.


In the sanitarium,

Provided with medication.

By which I lost my memory,

Crawling in the emptiness of chaos...


Regularly I suffered blackouts,

By which I saw nothing.

Not knowing what I did,

Much like sleep-walking;

And strange vistas occurred.


I wasn't suffering delirium,

Is what the doctors told.

So all this time,

I was in the asylum for no reason.


Then I had to go to boarding-school,

Where I developed something bad: anger.

I wanted to kill another, a female;

And Nyarlathotep, I am sorry;

Maybe I didn't wanted to commit this act,

But I had to from Satan...


What happened was unforeseen,

'cause my room was now aflame.

The building completely in axis,

The police came to arrest me.


A year and a half in prison,

Locked away in a cell, in Hell.

A year and a half terror,

The bondage of society.


When I got out, there was another project,

Named room-training.

I had to work in a factory,

But that didn't end well...

I started to mutilate myself,

Which I learned in the sanitarium.

They send me to the hospital,

To the psychiatric division.

Then again to the crisis-centra,

Which I didn't liked at all.

As if I had to start over,

This was too much overall...


Through the open door I escaped,

And from my last money;

I was buying a train-ticket,

Which brought me to Ramses.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is my autobiography.

A Little Child


Have to be a little child from my father,

Have to obey Cthulhu evermore.

And all bad things turned into dust,

By my evil and good Father.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Some thoughts.

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