Famished teenage days

And even more famished post teenage days

Were days where i was

Unable to tuck my brain anywhere.

The hunger and uncertainity meant the same thing

I nibbled on bits of Neitzsche, Spinoza Schopenhauer and others 

like small convenient sandwiches 

Parts of life, ditched, in each days ditches, boring , blank in unfocussed spaces

From which i didnt bother to struggle my  way out.

Though, only Neitzsche committed suicide 

I prefer to say that Spinoza,  Schopenhauer  and the others, they all did 

And today, i hardly remember  what they said, nothing more than just their names.

And, their suicide helped me to live my life.

Walt Whitman,  the happy vagabond, sang songs like noone else.

And his beard grew into long leaves of grass

He threw truth like thunderbolts 

Clouds of his words downpoured heavily 

Transiting the 4 seasons of my life

His old chants, twilight songs, sounds of winter, lingering last drops, after the dazzle of the day, as i sat writing .

I flew like a Raven out of Noah's arch

And returned from God's opaque storms and bleaking skies

Without finding any land.

Then, Noah got shipwrecked on some mountain top

he couldnt blame  God for it

So he blamed himself.

The fawn and birds jerked out of his groins as children 

(God bestowed him with mighty balls)

And Noah, stored in them , each little secret of the universe.

i left Noah's arch, just walked away

as if it was never there.

i walked away till i did'nt know who Noah was

And now as it rains

I see only the rain 

With a feeling that i could never drown

The arch i had become , an undrownable arch of some timeless ocean.