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Creative Corner - Original poems, plays, short stories ....

Okie Junta.....Unleash your creative forces here! And it can be anything..poems,anecdotes,short stories :: But it has to be cut copy paste bizzness. So...rock n roll!! Ps:- As for me,I'll be posting p...
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Page 17 of 53   
Where...? I can live alive

Walking under the grisly skyscrapers of hardship
and surrounded by the edifice of blue devils
were my melancholic emotions

Somewhere forlorn and defeat
were at their own high cost, where i was restricted
as maudlin persons already paid the bribe for it
because being a middle-class person with the deficit of grief
i was kept waiting for ,
the harsh latitude that i was provided with
was of second rate where i was not interested to live in

The meadow of thorns and the sculptures of pain
where the flower of happiness got withered by the winds of dolor
this is one of the rare wonder which i had never seen

The silhouette of my callous soul
and the solidly coloured inside with black and white
i am just a marionette wrapped under one clothe
having one or two colour of life on my dress
and the threads of kismet and luck are under control of fortune
i am not supposed to do what i want
i was seized under the hands of misfortune

Do you think i am still alive
A shelter yet to find where i can live alive
हिम्मत न हार मांजी तू जवानी में , ले चल अपनी नाव तू ग्हेहरे पानी में
Despite the interminable distance,in a brumous and sunny path
Under a mysterious & transparent condition,alone in his way
He started his journey

He spent sleepless night in desire of meeting his destiny
somewhere in the way of his journey
Sometimes the pouring drop of hopes
where blown away by the blustery winds of despair
And sometimes the violently rushing stream of disrupts drown him
Breathe of zest sail him athwart

Halt came in his journey
he gifted what he has
some misused it & some preserved it
he again started his illimitable journey
with his pals-faith & trust
in the search of new halt

And like this
हिम्मत न हार मांजी तू जवानी में , ले चल अपनी नाव तू ग्हेहरे पानी में
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Letter To Shiv Ji : Ladki Dilao

To :
Bcc :,,,
Sub: Bhagwan ek achhi ladki chahiye: kuchh karo please

Your creativity stands out.
.com was amazing

Heyy, puys!

I wrote this one, few months back, when I was badly missing my days at school. Must read, if you were a back-bencher, like me.!

Poem - Gods of the Last Bench

Enjoy.! :cheers:

naga25french Says
perhaps a English translation of poem would be good for non Hindi users like me

Buddy,you translate it and it'll be sour..;)..
Anyways,will be back with the complete Poem and its translation...:)
Those Gnomes swayed my heart again.Oh dere!I shalt not array clamour.
....... ,
, ,
, l..........

perhaps a English translation of poem would be good for non Hindi users like me
You are not rich until you own your mistakes - Linda Poindexter
Boyish Love....

Time was a beauty when I was a Boy,
Dreams were so attainable when I was a Boy,
Chivalry was needed but to win games at dawn
And I lived like a Knight when I was a boy

... Then Came Adoloscence and Gone Was that Boyhood
Little did I knew,a coy slept within that boy
Alas!that coyness was only infront of you,my fille
I wish I could have seen you when I was a boy,

Adoloscence passed away like winter wind
But not before it Lit my heart and Hyssoped coyness
I felt like a being of Capernaum,blessed by Christ
Love was my fodder and my soul urged for her kindness

And then I saw her and that too with a boy,
His eyes gleamed with the dreams that I once dreamt of
And I smiled once again with the same old coyness
That I once had when I was a boy.
Those Gnomes swayed my heart again.Oh dere!I shalt not array clamour.

....... ,
, ,
, l..........

Those Gnomes swayed my heart again.Oh dere!I shalt not array clamour.


In the whistling sleepless static nights,
when the lonely winds move,
bustling through windows of heart,
putting the paper of emotions on groove.

The rustling of constant freedom,
from the paperweight of world,
trying to touch again the beloved pen,
when her kiss of signature make it blurred.
The memories of that lovely yore,
when that pen embraces the paper,
before sliding back into relations penstand,
looking with a decreased taper.

The paper have those inked memories,
reminding it of that one special past,
and now he sees pen embracing every other paper,
that special feeling smoked so fast.

and it cried in the night all long,
for his love for the pen becomes a sin,
and in the morning with all inked memories blurred and melted,
he died in the dustbin....


The story of a salesman for a day, tried to be as creative as possible. Comments are welcome


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