Poetry byMahadip Neupane

I come from every nook and cranny that is acknowledged through time; I come from thy beggar’s dreams to thy foreseen gleam.

Forever, circumstances await thine, for I have been to all places that I have held dear to mine. The straightness of life lies in a straight line, yet squiggly when looked closely at the line.

I have loved all moths that have not drowned in the love of thine. The dangers lie in the unyielding time, where movements pass, and I fall in line.

Humm; the ringing bell gentles in. I start speaking all languages half-heartedly, none fully from within. My birth is the creation brought forth by destruction. I have lived as a gentle butterfly, a calm human, and a beloved moth.

For I am gentle around the edge but smooth and silky within, rough at the touch but gentler per breath in. The wound is the rust fed by the negative thought. It can only heal through persistence.

If I hid, I would hide under the city lights. To feel free is to hold the chains of responsibility through my own hands. What prevents me from feeling free would be my own two hands. What holds me back is the gentle rust, woven through the self. My voice is action; it sings through the work.

The dream is to be who I am, for the fear lies in the death of the butterfly wings through its own hands. I would like to let go of the rust and embrace the calm truth, but I shall not, for rust has flavor, flavor liked by the unamused heart.

My hope lies in persistence. My utopia remains undefined. My community includes all who think and speak the same words as mine. I grew out of free will and the chained circumstance of time. The landscape had gentle cliffs and smooth hills every time, but a gentler, smoother road draws closer in sight.

What is happening now is an attempt at persistence of the past. How I got here is unknown, foretold by the world; it is not to last.

If I cannot change it, we must push the future to change. When I lose all else in my presence, I must persist in what lies for me to proclaim…

Oh gentle thine, come take what is yours and mine. I shall forever ache for the love of thine, for it shall not fall under your hands or mine.

The shallow depth of your soul shall forever muddy the waters of the traveling boat of mine.

The unyielding human shall always die with time, for his audacity challenges the foolish customs practiced since the eon of time. His tenacity lies bare for change; there and then, circumstance shall come to test his proclaim.

Oh parasites of the coldest heart, may the gentlest dart shatter your heart with all its might.

Broken and bright, they shall forever attempt to fright.

Hear me now, oh time: my crimes and my hatred and my love, all you shall take and give to thine. But my will and my ambition and my greed shall mark you and all others until the end of your time and mine.

For there shall come a day when nothing in this world will be left for me to dine. Until then, rejoice, that rusty will of time.

The dying ember burns my heart into the lightest tender.
May the gentlest heart break your might with the lightest start.

The trapped time, the broken ember, may it judge
your actions and mine with the cruelest chamber.

Oh thine, you shall be mine. All who lie bare
shall lie there until thine is all mine.

Time, time, time, shall you be unyielding until the end of thine?
Shall the veil of perfection outwear the vase of thine?

May you die more gently than thine… oh, unyielding flame of mine.

Prelude

From the weight of atoms to the deepest ocean depth of the world, the average man knows it all and has been through it all. In the land of dreams, where any man can go into the world and see things that have never been seen, in a time when every American is able to think what they will, speak what they will, and do what they will, why is the poor American down the street unable to speak good words of himself, but only of another? Why does the common poor man have more hope in things outside of himself? Why is the poor American so low on positivity of perception?

Is it outward poverty that condemns him to the inner poverty of hopelessness, misery, and distrust beyond his capabilities? I say no, for the common impoverished American man’s inner self cannot be affected by his outward circumstance, for he chooses the words and affections that will move him today and not tomorrow.

Poor American Man: Poetry

The impoverished American looks into his $1,000 phone, replaced every year with a more fragile cover.

He seeks people and things that he can say are his and him in another. He dares not face the world in front of him, for the unseen screen shall never reprimand him for his attempt at the betterment of himself in front of another.

His worn-out, ragged clothes rub a ragged scent onto him; his family’s quiet sadness, born of poorness, gently tugs him in.

Where they come home from the colleges with clothes, cars, and jewelry that shine so bright, it may put the poor man in a gloomy light that dims ever so with the night, which tugs his heart with all its might.

The declined card at the study cafés dims his bright lights, and he too, like his family, withers into the night.

It is never the darkness that comes from the lack of light, but the deeper, crueler darkness of self-perception that questions his might.

The man stresses here and there, all night, but about what? It is his right, for he knows that it shall not grant him a pleasant night.

He says not things and words, but merely reacts and states what is, by the world, right. For he is too fearful to face the bitterness that comes from speaking the truth and facing the overwhelming light, for it burns far too bright for his poor sight.

Oh seeker, I promise you it burns through you too, every untold night, a truly ungraceful sight.

He is distraught that the gentle landlord is coming in to kick him out with all his might. So he sleeps with a tiny candlelight, lit so bright. It illuminates the darkest corners of human sight.

And when he walks into the college halls and classes with all his fear and hatred, his belongings are coated with the dark thoughts from the night, clothed over him with the cold wind of a winter night.

The prosperous, well-slept American shall answer the poor man’s negative light with all his happy might.

With a heavy heart and empty pockets, he turns away from this light, for shame will not permit his bowed head to see the light. His eyes have never seen something so bright.

No place welcomes him unless his usefulness is first proven at sight. He shall face the conformity of the mass, day and night, until he, like the rest, slumbers into night, the foretold sight.

He carries his sorrow from one place to another; his friends and loved ones avoid him like the plague of another.

Abundance of heights he dares not to dream, for such lavishness belongs to unseen dreams. While persist he may, his presence the world forbids.

A whisper of hope wrapped in the breeze,
Ink-stained fingers dance with ease,
wrinkled pages speaks of thyine
Dreams testament to Reality in due time

The cover bears the weight of time
Each Scar tells its story in time
Every moment bled onto the page,
Inked with pints of ambition, struggle, and grace.
Whispers of toil spill from the spine,
Where doubt and fear in silence entwine.

A keeper of secrets, a silent friend,
With each turn of the page, a new story transcends.
Touch the words; they linger, they call,
Ink-stained fingers have felt it all.
Weight of every mental fight
Is cradled in the letters, of the night
Deep carvings, behold the past, the unspoken words,
Declared to last.

OH MY DREAM I call, Come forth to forbear the words of all
In mess and order, chaos and calm,
Each wrinkle and crease becomes a balm.
Between the lines, one feels the strain,
hopes that danced in joy and pain.
Paragraphs woven with threads of grace,
Each entry holds a moment, a time, a place.

Now in the stillness, The dream starts to bloom.
Every turn feels anew,
From ink and paper, new paths find room.
In this sacred place, the fearful heart sets itself ablaze
Each fall, felt with greater grace
Through every tear, through every rhyme.

What was once a dream has come to thyine,
Oh human come see the holder of chains that has conquered the circumstance of time.
The gentlest thyine.
At Last, the Ink spilled pages weep
It proclaims, that each word’s a vow,
He made it then; I hold it now.