Biography of Pranav Gothic
(English is a second language to me so please ignore my mistakes)
Hey. I am just another guy from the crowd who wants to do something different. I play guitar, sing and write songs. I am sometimes a poet too. I play/write for my self satisfaction.I dream to make a band and Bring Back Grunge! one day.
Grunge is not at all a type of music to me. It's was a Revolution! About small scale indie-artists from Seattle in the late 80's who didn't give a damn about what the record companies in L.A. thought. They just played music for fun. Money and fame didn't matter. Grunge is a source of inspiration to me. Every independent artist, no matter what music he/she/they make, is GRUNGE!
Apart from all this I'm a funny guy (I think) . I might be weird sometimes cause I'm a loner. I like staying alone in peace listening to extreme alternative music.
I believe when I plug in my headphones, the world's mouth is shut. I love making friends but emotionally, I'm usually pale. Very easy to fool me, but hard to get away. ;)
Pranav Gothic Poems
A Heavy Hearted Sight
A radio screams another love-lost song through the frosty air. The lightening conducts a grand orchestra of tyranny. A weary cat can be heard hissing in the distance. A 'lost' teenager finds his ways home in the curfew.
A Tribute To The Forgotten Heroes Of Kar...
Today, I kissed the soil where they fell To save 'us' from hell Today,
Who Are You?
Who are you? A golden brooke Free from time's game A fairy, filling colors in the life of,
The Last Love-Letter
Yesterday, I was reading your letter.... Had just read the first few lines, And tears broke out. My vision blurred,
Her Mom Calls Me A Murderer
Hush Hush Hush! She sleeping
A starry night sky, lights up the tears upon my face. Like glistening pieces of heaven, coming from my eyes.
Who Am I?
Who am I? A speck o' dust, Or a ball of fire? Or some wounded desire,
I Sit...I Write
Down to hell My fate spells How will it end? Mt mind tries
Alibi Yesterday has come and gone To never again, be here
A Heavy Hearted Sight
A radio screams another love-lost song through the frosty air.
The lightening conducts a grand orchestra of tyranny.
A weary cat can be heard hissing in the distance.
A 'lost' teenager finds his ways home in the curfew.
You can hear the beginnings of a quarrel drenching the misty night.
These feverish ill doings-
An instrumental quarrel-
Just another night,