only write poetry
Could the ocean ever dream of relinquishing its
majestic waves; flowing as placid as the solitary pond
spawned by the monsoons?
Could the sky ever dream of existing without its
conglomerate of puffy clouds; stare sheepishly towards
the earth like a dead canvas painted with blue?
Could the mother ever dream of killing her child;
slicing its robust meat to satisfy her gluttony?
Could the fish ever dream of living without water;
slithering miserably on ground like the venomous
Could the cow ever dream of eating thorns instead of
leafy grass; lazing in desolate solitude without
oozing even an iota of milk?
Could the elephant ever dream of running as fast as
the spotted panther; climbing up the hazel tree trunk
with the nimble ease of a bushy squirrel?
Could the desert ever dream of being enveloped with
pools of crystal water; all its shimmering and
fathomless sands drenched completely with spongy
Could the freezing ice-cream ever dream of charring an
individual to raw soot; reducing his demeanor to
inconspicuous particles of grey ash?
Could the obnoxious river of sweat ever dream of
diffusing marvelous scent; spreading its fragrance far
and wide to every corner of the vast globe?
Could the incongruous little street fly ever dream of
sitting on the royal throne; barking orders to
soldiers and countrymen instead of sitting on rotten
Could the intoxicating bottle of scarlet whisky ever
dream of becoming a saint; instilling godly virtues in
a person consuming it; instead of making him swoon on
Could the stray rat ever dream of weaving immaculate
fabric; eating on the table with scintillating forks
and spoons; instead of poking its nose pertinently at
the cheese kept in the refrigerator?
Could the wife who loved her husband over and above
everything on this planet ever dream of murdering him;
slashing his veins for perfectly no rhyme or reason?
Could the ghost imprisoned deep inside the dilapidated
corpse ever dream of facing the entire army; defeating
the valiant commanders; instead of inhabiting haunted
Could the honey trickling delectably from the beehive
ever dream of decimating a person; make him loose his
last breath; instead of tickling him mischievously in
Could the ominous beaked vampire ever dream of
instilling new life in people; benevolently helping
humanity; instead of brutally sucking gallons of blood
from the body of human?
Could the white skinned and satanic shark ever dream
of giving children a flurry of amicable smiles;
reciting to them stories of their motherland; instead
of pulverizing them to mincemeat with its knife like
Could the Creator ever dream of destroying the entire
Universe; erasing the globe from its very rudimentary
roots; instead of imparting fresh life every
Then how the hell could you ever dream that I went to
office from the crack of every dawn; to the striking
of every midnight; when infact my mind; body and
sensitive soul; wanted to do nothing else but float in
the aisles of surreal desire; bask in the glory of the
beauty hovering around; profoundly admire and imbibe
all the beauty existing in this world; when infact all
myself created till date and still to evolve wanted to
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Nikhil Parekh's Other Poems
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
Robert William Service
(16 January 1874 - 11 September 1958)
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Dreams, Langston Hughes
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
- A Dream Within A Dream, Edgar Allan Poe
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost