Tuesday, 18 September 2012


My childhood, a spoon on the sickle
That gets hot at every burn of struggle,
As if I am blown out like a burnt fly in heat wave,
That covers me in its huge wing folds.

It is not that I am on the wrong path,
I want to survive, struggling with reality,
I am not aimless, but some unknown
Luxurious persons drug my feet for their gain.

The entire dream is a broken night lamp
That clings over my head while sleeping.
My bed is screwed to a fixed wall,
That is crude, coated with blood-soaked color.

On this way I am moving with affiliations
Those are not mine, but are imposed capsules
That cannot generate dream, but give nightmare,
And with this, my living standard is poor and nostalgic.

Note: I am happy to received 

The Perfect Poet Award List For Week 73, Happy Rally! Thanks to Hyde Park Poetry


  1. poor but homely,

    love the word flow and imagery.

  2. sad, well painted imagery.

    hope for a better one next tie.

  3. being dragged is sad,
    well put.

    best wishes.

  4. Awesome poem. All those metaphors you have used ... very well composed.

  5. childhood fright is common,

    lovely metaphor, enjoyed the opening lines.