When even nature fails to invigorate

When even nature fails to invigorate,
When forests seem bleak and mountains heave a sigh,
When things just fall apart like a reprobate

Whose worn existence and stale cigarette
Makes me – a twisted catcher in the rye
Whose broken nature fails to invigorate.

When gnarly trees do threaten, castigate
With haunting browns, dead leaves – a sore to the eye,
When things just fall apart like a reprobate,

I look at you and set apart all hate
And embracing love with its low and soaring high
I look past, ‘Nature fails to invigorate,’

And such sayings that just sear, eviscerate
The little strength I cherish and hold nigh
When things just fall apart like a reprobate.

I cannot deny the existence of fate
Because it brought me you, beyond the ‘Why?’
When even nature fails to invigorate,
When things just fall apart like a reprobate.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

A peddler of dishonest lines

I doubt I’ll be able to write an, ‘Oh that’s beautiful!’ Love poem again because grandiose delusions and ideas shaped and molded all my relationships and the idealistic vulnerability of my youth now sees Autumn. I’ve grown cynical and skeptical though I maintain a veneer of a man-child. If you really knew me, you’ll know that despite my obnoxious mannerisms and acutely harrowing impishness, I’m a bleak, nihilistic, distraught bastard and if given a chance to regain my innocence I’d never take it because I’d throw it away and plumb the depths of depravity in minutes. When in a somber mood I trace the path that brought me here, the regression from a maladaptive daydreamer to a hopeless romantic to a sour-faced pessimist to an utterly tortured nihilist. I can’t even look at nature without adding an ingredient of sardonicism to the broth of appreciation in my head. I guess you’ve wondered about that cry for freedom that tears through the poetry I write. Well, honestly, it’s a sham. I’ve grown comfortably uncomfortable knowing that freedom in my case is an illusion, and so, you can discard all those raw, boiling hot metaphors I use and just look me in the eye using my lines and call me a peddler of dishonesty. Go on. I know you want to throw that tomato and boo me off the stage. I’ll go quietly. I promise. I’ll just walk away with the red stains all over my shirt and hair, and the overwhelming stench possessing me. I’m so far from hope that I won’t even puke in the dustbin backstage.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Protected by Copyscape

Some Season

Hey you. Don’t these woods have this strange, dreamy, whimsical allure? The season between Spring and Autumn has an odd eccentricity to it. This strange electricity permeates, and the roots, leaves, and branches ask us to lose ourselves but hold back like the ripeness which isn’t fully ripe yet, like the air that’s pungent but still crisp, raw and fresh. This season has both nymphs and demons; this season has both Leprechauns and Goblins; this season both pushes us into muddy paths and enables us to choose our well-tarred roads; this season stands between the coming nihilism and the fighting idealism; this season gives us shelter in caves where belief is the only defense against the downpour – rat ta tat rat tat rat, Crack! Help me, God! But also makes faith transform all that we see into something mystical and surreal – not gaudy landscapes, but a New Jerusalem beautiful. This season gives us a philosophical, introspective impressionistic landscape in the eyes of a mad Van Gogh, and a rough, raw, raving but ravishing expressionism in the eyes of a tortured Romantic. Hey, you, this season is a Bipolar Mixed Episode; it’s ugly-beautiful like a pug, and don’t we feel like giving up on it because it’s so infuriatingly, infectiously, pretty prepossessing? But also cling on because of some caffeinated lust for life; some, ‘Until I finish this can of Monster and read The Catcher in the Rye in one go!’ Slightly uppity, sickeningly bubbly, fickle-minded fidgety thing psychologically askew psycho-therapists call ‘sanity’? Hey, you, this season stands between a petty predisposition to a panicky Plunk! And a soft, sweetly given scent that makes us smoochy. Hey, you, this season is life, and hell, it’s filled with seemingly ceaseless strife, but also touching-you-tenderly soft guy or tussling-with-you tough guy ardor to strive. So, hey you, let’s give this crazy season a chance. Whaddya say?

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018) 

An ode to the now

One day when this long fight is over and
I stand before the throne, asked if I ran
The good run, or pushed that aesthetic hand
Away and chose to be a reckless man –
So self-indulgent, will I say, ‘Oh Lord!
I tried and tried but some scars never heal.’
Or will I say, ‘Though I was this harsh chord
Your grace kept me through and you held, did seal
This sinner who forsook you and said, No!
How you reached out and pulled him from below
The filth and grime of his depravity
And gave him wealth beyond insanity!’
I don’t know what that golden day will bring
But now, despite my pain, I’ll simply sing
A song of thankfulness for the now, here
A song of joy that slowly brings me near
Redemption’s gold or the strength to rise, move
And paints my day with a soft, strong blue hue.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Protected by Copyscape

Carrying on

I think about my pain and self-loathe,
the hurt’s authentic but the loathing’s
abominable like the shrieks of a spoiled
child who doesn’t get his way. Who said
life is fair? Who said we’re supposed to
think in black and white only? Who said
life is beautiful even? These are idealistic,
pseudo-adages like rag cloths serving as
bandages.

The sun dims and the moon highlights
her dominance, but we carry on.
The dead lie and the parade speaks
once of them, a garish show of
affection before we carry on.
The pugilist is down, the crowd cries
when they see a winning streak broken,
but then they carry on.

And that’s pretty much your grounding,
your therapy or your prescription –
carrying on, come ebb or flow,
come beauty or dirt,
come raucousness or elegance.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Protected by Copyscape

Take me someplace better

Take me someplace better. Help me find something better than this worn, jaded, cracked scrimshawed jewel existence. I use that slightly obscure image because that’s how it all seems: hazy, messy, broken and weary. I walk dizzying path after dizzying path, my feet scraped, bruised and hurting. I find no inn, no ramshackle hut and not even a clearing where I can rest. The landscape is post-apocalyptic and ashen, the trees stark and barren, and the air smog filled and asphyxiating. I’ve cried until I can’t anymore. I’ve died again and again, only to be reborn as a weak Phoenix of sorts – not one that haunts the abusers and haters, but one that’s shot down and burned only to rise weaker each time, to barely fly just over the cracked earth and the craggy surface. You’re my only hope, but you seem so far away even though you’re near like the Christian God who’s omnipresent, but also distant. I feel that very Jehovah’s wrath each time the sun strikes me blind and knock-kneed, I force myself to carry on, but fall on the mud, the stench of littered earth rushing through my nostrils and setting my head spinning, my thoughts racing, my eyes blurring, my mind reeling and my pain engulfing, enveloping and entrapping me. Be my muse or at least inspiration when I travel because the thought of you should mean something, the dreams you create must stand for something and you as both a person and a force – the woman who makes me – must be everything. So, take me someplace better than this room with cigarettes on the floor and booze and my puke. Help me bathe in waters of redemption and cleanse myself – a quiet, tranquil purgatory – before I finally rest in your arms.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Protected by Copyscape

Journal Entry: A fresh start

I planned on taking a long break from writing, but I’ve decided to post sporadically. I will be gone for long or short periods now and then, but I plan on writing when things get too difficult for me to handle. This might be the darkest period of my life because I find myself losing my struggle with Bipolar Disorder and OCD with psychosis. I’m also struggling financially and got cheated out of a lot of money by a company with whom I teamed up to start a project. So first, I’d like to end wars on WordPress. This platform is a creative one that should help nurture artists and help them grow. This isn’t a platform to hold grudges, write explosive rants and hate on people (all of which I’m guilty of too.) Having said that, I’ve been hurt too, and my words reflected my anger. But in darkness there is light. There must be or else we’ll forever find ourselves groping through dim corridors looking for a switch without our glasses on. And I’d like to believe that there’s much more to life than that. During trying times, you find out who your real friends are. The people who’ll stand by you despite your eccentricities and idiosyncrasies. So, I want to start by thanking my dear mother for standing by me through it all. You’ve shown me unconditional love that I didn’t think was humanly possible. You’ve shown me that there’s another kinder, more beautiful side to humanity. I’m sorry I’ve hurt you, Mom. I’ve said and done things I should never have. And I know you’ll read this because you read my work without ever judging me and see the beauty even when I lash out. My goal in life is to make you proud by becoming a better person, by fighting my addictions and my demons and by not being so quarrelsome, rage-filled and judgmental. If I can’t become a better person for me, I want to become a better person for you. Next, I’d like to thank Emily and Tara. Emily will continue posting here during my absences and she inspires me because she’s hardworking, honest, gives her all when she commits to a friendship and isn’t afraid to speak the truth. I love straightforward people and I admire that in her. Tara knows a bit of what I go through and is my twin (This is an inside Literati Mafia joke!) She’s always supportive and her raw portrayals of inner angst when she writes, and her strength to endure things that’ll easily shatter me gives me grit. Next, I’d like to thank everyone else on the Mafia with whom I’ve interacted regularly. They’re people from different parts of the world and have different perspectives to offer. They’re also extremely strong. Now, I’m still getting to know a few of you better, but know that you’re respected and appreciated. Finally, I want to thank Whispers of the Universe. Now you don’t know him, and he likes his anonymity, but man, he’s as strong as they come. He’s made of steel and he’s helped me in more ways than he realizes. I’ll be posting a few Journal Entries like this and yes, a few poems. And for everyone who encouraged me to find peace by commenting on Emily’s entry and for the people who asked me to stay strong and ignore negativity, I can’t thank you enough. Emily passed on your beautiful messages and I’ll read them now myself. Thank you. It’s beautiful that people want to hear what little I have to offer and it’s humbling.

-Nitin