Poetry

Unrelenting

Perhaps the words I want to say,
Will never leave me in a way
As dust and fog cloud my world
You stand there standing, underestimating

A broken mess of a soul
Is what I’ve become
A foul soul livid with rage n sorrow
A fragile self with no yearn for tomorrow

For the cliched life in me
You were the world to me
Dreams that won’t be fulfilled
But grow inside, waiting, mocking, baiting

Perhaps the answers I seek,
Will never lend themselves to me
As rain and lightning breaks my self,
You stand there, not understanding

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A pleasure for the soul
Now breaks inch by inch
A pickaxe slowly cutting astray
Of self that I had hidden away

Hatred n sorrow is all I feel,
As an embodiment of lies fester and grow
Why have I not realized it yet
That perhaps I am that,
That perhaps I am sorrow.

What is it that takes to connect,
To another in ways that one can’t comprehend
Why is it that words are too less
To describe what my self had felt

I wish for nothing but the desires I have
It’s perhaps selfish but i know
And I stand here, still standing
As you walk away, leaving.

As I stare,
As I desire.
As I watch my dreams with leer.
As I still stand here, unrelenting.

Continue reading “Unrelenting”

Erratic Scribbles

The Daily Social Intercourse

Don’t we all wish to be the dark mysterious stranger and to perhaps one day, be awed at rather than the one doing the act. It is, perhaps these selfish desires, simple things in life, of wanting to be wearing another’s shoes, that help us mistake a human for a mythical being.

There’s little effort for some people when it comes to communication, but for others it can be a nightmare. The life of a mysterious stranger might as well be hell for the simple reason that he doesn’t know how to talk, to conduct basic communication, which is perhaps why he’s so mysterious.

The daily work a person puts into connecting with another person verbally or otherwise, is generally unaccounted for. For some, it can be hard to even comprehend, while for others, it comes as naturally as leaves to a tree. But poets who can’t rhyme, deserve no qualms in this world. And that is perhaps where, the ones who do know the truth of the world, go wrong.

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Source: pinterest.com/pin/288230444875929894

People, more than anything else, are what shape us to be who we are. And later, to become who we have to be. Depending on the situation, a person’s tone is enough to send a shiver down someone’s spine. Depending on where your thoughts wander, that is either good or bad, from your perspective. Words shape us to be who we are, some take it unto themselves to be a reflection of who they are on someone else’s mirror; while others reel in their desires to be invisible in the world. The few that run after balance, lose their path and fall in the chasm of disappointment, for there is no middle. Only mistakes and more mistakes.

And yet, even with it’s significant importance in our lives, so little is said about the daily social intercourse we have with each other through words, poetry, literature, music and other things of wonder.

It is perhaps, because of it’s negligence, that we go on to admire people who live life unfiltered, arrogant and overconfident. Growing up, the simple act of talking was painful to bear for the mysterious stranger. Not because he didn’t want to but because of the thought that no one understood him haunted his ever living self. From his perspective, the daily social intercourse between people, was no less than mesmerizing. From his observation, life was but beautifully weaving lives together in ways that he couldn’t comprehend. By his observation, he was but a pawn in the game of life. By others’ observations, he was but the main figure; idolized and transcended, and misunderstood.