menash mohan shrestha Poems

Down the aisle i met people with
masquerade,
With there tongues laden with words so
clichéd,
...

My days always walk along the uproar of this chaotic valley.
But my nights are far too lonely.
Every second passes like a day.
Minutes, they seems weeks.
...

In one of the tiresome night,
With a man who is eager to fight,
A man like a preaching prophet,
His words that I can never forget.
...

That brow when rose, browbeats me,
To fall into your pliable foot.
Your tip of tounge, my elixir source,
When enchants my name,
...

Oh Rain.
Free fall of heaven's tear.
Your terminal velocity imparts kinetic
churning to my emotions.
...

Everyday you go through such an ordeal,
For you must suffer before you die.
Every end of the day you die on your bed,
For you can't succumm to struggle.
...

I'm listening to the gale's rage.
The hiss of moving wind.
It whispers in my ears.
And bring the jaw-dropping news.
...

I can't say anything about tides.
But who says time doesn't wait.
Time does wait.
It's always waiting for life to start.
...

Chilling at the core, fire on the surface. Oh! How I wish I could talk. How I wish to say that even my refrigerant is in need of some moving air.
In this scorching heat, I provide you your much longed ice cubes. But even in my ice chest there is an alein invasion of moulds. Oh How I hate these pychrophils. And in the country of never ending blackouts you kept me in a dark corner. And the self thawing ice inside my compartment wets my innards. I'm so sick of this.
And what's more. I can't even talk. Even if I could, you have always preferred a long distance love with me just to enjoy the love of your pet dog. I want to shout out. I want to cry. But unlike you people, I'm not supplied with the mundane communications tools when you are far away from me. Can't convey through words and letters. Can't convery through thephone. Can't convey through the space.
And there's always less people and much food. Less mouth and much long list of menu.Who would tell you that I am not a lorry to carry your sorry.
...

In my death bed, hell is here.
Tossing and turning with my bedsore.
Like flipping and burning in the frying pan.
...