Photography Poetry Writing

July 31, Scatter Plot


Wherever we have to go we don’t want to go.
Wherever we want to go we aren’t welcome.
Wherever we end up we work to accept.
Wherever we are we never want to leave again.
Lost paradigms lie in sweet nostalgia.
We put in the work and the time.
We never miss the bad parts whenever we think back.
We always live the bad parts whenever we go back again.
Your posterity lacks good posture.
You’ve been down this road before.
Do you ever think the gravel will turn to paved road?
You’re like that scatter plot graph
Where the curvy line never reaches a point.
The closer you get, the older you get.
There’s no end to this trek but death.
But maybe we aren’t meant to reach a point.
Maybe there really is no end to this road.
If we believe the end isn’t meant to be reached,
We will always have a place to go.

By Ashish Seth

Photography Poetry Writing

July 28, The Main


The main is a stream we all drink from
But some of us drink more than others
And the ones that drink less tell
The ones that drink more they’re drunk.

But we all require the same amount of drink
So the ones that drink less get drunk off other streams
And don’t know they’re drunk
Until they return to drink from the main,
once again.

By Ashish Seth

Photography Poetry Writing

July 24, The End


It’s like watching a movie with the lights on
You’re paying attention to the glare
You’re not paying attention
Pay attention to the glare
You’re not paying attention

I should’ve,
If I could
But I didn’t even do that
I could’ve done this
I should’ve done that
Maybe if I did those
Maybe if I did this
By now, I should be here
By then, I should’ve been there
Before that, I must’ve been there
After this, I hope to be here
When did I ever get here?
I had originally planned to get there
There must’ve been a mistake down the line
My hopes and fears are words on white paper
And someone crossed them with a line
Who crossed them with a line?
Were these dreams ever mine?
What if it was me that crossed them off?
What if I don’t want them anymore?
Why isn’t it full yet?
Why did I miss that?
When did I miss it?
Why did it pass me by?
Why didn’t the others warn me?
Maybe it happened differently
If this happened like this
Then why is it like that?
If only it went like that way
If only that way went like this
If this is the end
Have I even got there yet?
Maybe we passed it
Maybe you distracted me
Maybe I should’ve done this alone
Maybe I should’ve had someone else
Maybe we went the wrong way
Maybe we haven’t reached it
Maybe we don’t know what it looks like
Maybe I’m the only one who made it through
That can’t be true, no, I still have you
Maybe my hopes and fears didn’t shine through
Maybe I was ambushed
Maybe they left me
By then, I should’ve had this
By now, I should’ve been here
Maybe I’ve fallen behind
Maybe I’m ahead of my time
By now, I should’ve seen this
By now, I should have this
But I haven’t even done that yet
But I haven’t even been there yet
But I haven’t even felt this feeling
But I haven’t even seen this through
Maybe we will get there even now
Maybe we will get there even still

Baby can you pause the love?
Things take time for me to shake out
It’s like watching a movie with the lights on
Can’t help but pay attention to the glare

By Ashish Seth

Photography Poetry Writing

July 21, The Surface


I’m just gonna dwell on my love while you dwell on my problems, need a soft quiet place to dwell, from the spells and the metropolis hell, dwelling on my love in this well of opportunities and hopes, make me forget about my fears and hatreds, can’t dwell on them. No, no longer, no more, can’t dwell on my problems ‘cause dwelling on my problems means dwelling in a hell, a hell I’ve dwelt in for most of my life. No, I like this well, this alcove, this cave opening by the sea, with seagulls coming in and out to greet me and see the sea, salty. Delicious. I’m gonna sit here and dwell on my love and she doesn’t have to dwell on me. Let us find a nice quiet place to dwell.

By Ashish Seth

Photography Poetry Writing

June 25, Someone’s Listening In


A detail of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks

Horns bust out the speakers
Someone croons out his misery
Some come here for company
Others chase foolish dreams
Are a pen and a pad all you need?
Maybe that’s why you came here hungry
Old bread and condiments
Coffee stains on white plates
Sugar shakers and ketchup bottles
A cup of coffee at this hour
Brings out my inner night owl
I see people as they are
At night they take their masks off
Let their secrets breathe out
But the sharks still watch

Their love leaves holes
Like an attic filled with old clothes
A basket filled with lonely notes
A spleen punctured with shotgun holes
My pen moves faster than their men in trench coats
Who keep their eyes on patrol
Confiscating ideas writ on post-it notes
Into metal empty drawers

I always have the last word
I never the last laugh
I always want people to hear me talk
But I never let them know what it’s all about
I always have something to say
But never do I have a moment to say it

Maybe it’s the way she smiles
Makes the ribs pinch the walls of my stomach
It’s so loud when it gets all quiet
You’re always reading yesterday’s news
Maybe she’ll come around
Don’t presume to know what you don’t
Don’t be modest
It’s dishonest
We all know what you really are
She is the steam that rises from a coffee cup
The caffeine taken black pooling in my stomach
A cup of her at this late hour
Brings out my night owl

I’m waiting on a train
Last one came an hour late
I’m just a pen and a pad of ideas
The last one came a two hours late

By Ashish Seth

Photography Poetry Quotes Writing

June 21, The Truth Will Mess You Up


The truth will set you free.
The truth will tear us apart.
The truth will mess you up.
The truth will change your heart.

Ignorance alleviates what truth cuts open.
This cave of shadows is much easier to take.
What was it that you just said?
I can’t help I’m endlessly curious.

What do you use your third eye for?
To trip and fall off balance.
I knew it.
We knew it.

You should’ve stopped.
You really messed up this time.
You didn’t get the message.
Nothing here to leverage.
You messed up everything.
You messed up everything.
You messed up everything.
I hope the taper forgives me as we fall.

By Ashish Seth

Philosophy Photography Poetry Quotes Writing

June 3, What I Found [On Identity and Belief]


It starts with excess and apathy. I delve in dangerous appetites, a thirst for beer and strong shots. I fall down and pass out, black out, and forget how I woke up on a couch with a shirt smeared with vomit on the spot where I lay on. The second stage is emulation, monkey see, monkey do. If the method worked for him and her, than it must work for you. I fall into trenches and underground pathways dug out by men through ages, traveled by multitudes in different stages, different decades, generations. I dig my head in old books and classical compositions, black and white movies, oil paintings, and philosophical statements. Nothing bears my imprint. I find myself in nothing. Another dead-end, I throw myself to mindless working. Third stage. Welcome to the machine, my son, well oiled with new recruits. They tell me I’ll rise if I have something to prove. Out of the black, into the blue, I work for pigs and liars and people who wear masks, appear like angels to the fruitful, normal to the consumers and devils to the menial. I toil under these men, working for a purpose determined by the superiors of superiors. My life left on random, a default parameter, in tandem with a career I don’t give a damn of. Out with friends on the weekends at pubs watching headlines scroll across the rim of the plasma TV screen, watching time slow down to a lazy crawl, I push against the hands of the clock to make the weekend go on long. Sometimes I roll on the floor and laugh my ass off at how bad things have got. Then lash out at loved ones, get depressed and go out to score smack off a college drop out, down a bottle of hard liquor and pass out, black out, wake up in a pool of vomit and forget how. I remember posters in high school halls saying believe in yourself, a little attitude goes far, a little hard work makes life easier, makes the blind spots and metaphysical riddles disappear, if for so long. How long?

What’s wrong? These dreams become hollow each hour they’re worked on.

Then, my mind lights up with an epiphany.

What if I find myself in a belief? What if our identities are beliefs, reflections uncertain, morphing sporadic in streams of water?

Maybe some delusions are necessary. Maybe some illusions are healthy. Maybe the pure definition of belief requires the believer to take a leap of faith. Maybe believing in something is a skill. Because knowledge is backed by interests with deep pockets carrying torches under banners with names and egos and systems of explanation suited for the ways of power. But a belief is a belief. Something they can’t get at. Something they can’t touch unless you let them. A belief can be changed. A belief is malleable. A belief is the substance in the mind we create with. People take advantage of others with knowledge. People take advantage of themselves with belief. For you can never really know who you are. You can only believe in what you were and what you can be.

By Ashish Seth

Photography Poetry Quotes Writing

May 17, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

I got this feeling today while I was waiting in my car and looking up at the sun. I’ve felt this feeling before at different times. I don’t know what it is. Here’s my attempt at describing it. I wrote it to this song.

Like waves in a stream
Like fizz in sodapop
Like bubbles in a bath
Like an iced lime latte
Like froth on a milkshake
Like all green lights ahead
Like not having to get out of bed
Like every person you’ve liked
Like every path you’ve ever biked
Like going down a sloped path
Like finishing a final exam
Like a late night drive
Like not having to hide
Like forgetting what hurts
Like a feeling of self-worth
Like dissipation
Like an act of creation
Like confusion turns to clarity
Like the amusement of idiocy
A momentary lapse in foolishness
Like a place where odds don’t exist
Like the same song over and over
Like an arm around your shoulder
Like days you’d just live over
Like your best friends come over
Like Donkey Kong on Super Nintendo
Like a two-hour extended episode
Like things aren’t yet over
Like feeling this is ‘sober’
Like the start of a sleepover
Like sexual innuendo
Like a Friday at closing time
Like hearing the bell for the last time
Like meeting someone interesting
Like seeing the food approaching
Like taking the first bite
Like writing the last line
Like love on poetry
Like dancing in the streets
Like the destination you’ve reached
Like where two points meet

Like the first chord you played
Like your first taste of lemonade
Like building up a deck of cards
Like walking the block with your only dog
Like whispering into your loved ones ear
Like wishing the end was not so near – Matt Rulli

Like turning regret into a youthful eye – Claire Luxenburg

Exceeding the limits of your imagination
Being the child tucked in bed
Dreaming of the world with fascination
Having that first touch
And the need for a kiss
A breeze grazing the sweat off my forehead
Water as still as ice reflecting the sunset – Lucianna See

Like a rhyme on every line
Like you’re finally getting some signs
Like your first time on rewind
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind…

Writers and passing bystanders, if you know this feeling I’m trying to describe, I oblige you to contribute a few lines of verse. I shall add your lines above and credit you.

Ashish Seth

“Never tell me the odds.” – Ashis-, no no, Han Solo

Photography Poetry Writing

May 16, Introspective Pooch


At the dawn of summer
Rest in peace, Donna Summer

By Ashish Seth

Photography Poetry Quotes Writing

May 8, AHHHHH!!!



The following… set to Santana’s “Samba Pa Ti”

“And when his heart broke, he crawled into the backseat of his Corolla and put his ear buds on. He scrolled down to Santana and played this song. “Samba Pa Ti”. He didn’t know what it meant. The phrase. Didn’t care. It sounded like he felt. That was all that mattered. He didn’t cry. Never cry. Often times when he was high, he wondered whether there was a doctor that would alleviate the heaviness in his heart. He realized he had been using cheesy lines a lot. And sometimes he would pull out his iPhone and jot down random thoughts. And sometimes he would listen to the same song over and over. Such were the symptoms of a heart on love. When the song “Samba Pa Ti” reached the end, he felt better. More upbeat. Less sorrowful. Less melancholy. Hopeful. He put the key in the ignition, backed out and headed for home. If he could pray for anything, it’d be courage. All he needed was courage and the rest he could do himself.”

By Ashish Seth