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Showing posts from February, 2019

Words

Writing is therapeutic Like long strolls along the ocean Or a warm cup of tea between your hands Deep talks with a friend about life Scribbling a thousand characters effortlessly Leaving the imprint of your feelings on the page, The raw essence of your soul. Writing unveils All the emotions that you couldn't articulate into words at the time that you wanted Those which have stuck with you for enough time that you finally jot them down in hopes that they leave your system. Other times, you write them down to inmortalize tthem,  to remember them and  showcase them like the grandest exhibit in the globe.

Love and Lust

What is love? But a vulnerable sensation Twisting your stomach into a thousand knots That strangle the flock of birds, not delicate butterflies, That seem to be permanently residing within me If you are near. What is lust? But a thousand cuts Piercing a body That both aches for the antiseptic but dreads the stinging burn that awaits. Love and lust, deemed as opposites by society, Aren't as antagonistic in my Heart. Love isn't as pure, Nor innocent. It doesn't make us Invincible Nor Better. Lust is Harmful rather than Thirsty; Toxic Rather than passionate. Negative connotations are all there are To these feelings that otherwise sound like bliss. Because when your head and heart are a mess It sends your soul into distress.

Shall I compare you to a night out?

As soon as you step out of your house, You are an ever-present smile Which, instead of lighting up the sky alone, Chooses to be a mere companion Of your chiseled made-up face, Caked with products to hide your Perfect imperfections That only you seem to notice. Prancing around in your best clothes Doesn't portray who you really are;  But rather  displays who you wish to be: Another one of the bunch without any  Personality and style; Following trends like cookie cutters, Those which make delicious desserts of perfect appearance That, however, are somewhat homogeneous And therefore, Boring. Leading an army of people that Doesn't fight for you at the end of the day, Avidly greeting anyone with a familiar face, Although you might not even get on well, Just to get a feel of what being popular is,  When all you really are  is  as fragile  as reputation itself. You are like the two faced coins you use to pay for The night's liquid courage, Used to swe
It's true. The good always win. The light prevails over the shadows. But, how can I ensure that I won't be a crippled old lady with deep-set smile lines, but a frown buried within her soul? Because the peace of mind achieved from being good comes at a price. You are bound to be misunderstood and dismissed by many, throughout the course of your life. The truth is, I can't do anything about it. I am not able to force people to see me as I am, or as I see myself. No matter how much I am ready to give them, to devote, I can't guarantee their appreciation, their reciprocity. I will simply have to be content doing it all for my own sake. For those who cannot find a single string of darkness within then, are the ones who are bombarded with it from exterior forces.
Do people see right through me? Is that why they're scared to come closer, Frightened of me jumbling their feelings and unveiling all the secrets they couldn't keep? A self-defence mechanism designed by their hurt brains to stop them from re-visiting pain? And instead Wallowing in their empty, ephemeral friendships Not giving me the time of day, Not granting themselves the chance to be heard for once. "Your loss", I think. But the truth is, I love to listen, love to cure someone else's wounds In order not to feel alone in this psychedelic path called life.