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

Does it Matter?

For the longest time, I’ve never really appreciated the celebration of the day I was born. I still don’t. I say for the longest time because I remember a time when I did. When the years seem to go by fast, eagerly waiting for Birthday gifts and just the idea of Christmas. When it felt like it would snow any day in winter, it just needed to be slightly colder than it was the other day. And rain seemed like something of a wonder. The lightning strikes and the wind felt surreal in a world already so confusing to make sense, with it’s dawns and dusks.

Life seemed like worth celebrating. Perhaps that’s what I was doing in my birthdays back then. Perhaps I was just waiting for the gifts. The latter would probably seem more accurate. Today, I do not want gifts, and celebration of life seems a little meaningless every passing day. It’s not that I do not value life, quite the opposite really. But every year, it’s no more than a reminder of my own mortality and limitations to not be able to do the things I want to. To not be able to achieve what I really want. To not have the power to change my present.

Patience. That’s what I hear myself saying.

And yet, that’s exactly what takes away any reason to celebrate. Every solution seems to add more problems. Life, as it grows, seems to just get more complicated. All I know is that I know so little, that I’ve little to affect the world with.

Be Better.

Know more.

But what do I chase. Every passing year, it’s just a reminder of the hollowness of the dreams I create for myself. Every year, it’s a showcase to myself of the burdens I make myself carry.

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Tim Burton’s drawing seems apt in this piece. Source – https://www.pinterest.com/pin/186406872051158846/

Am I to give my own life meaning, or is it to come by itself. I do not run for a higher purpose, I do not need one. The world and the universe we live in, is fascinating on it’s own. But why is it that I can’t celebrate? Why does the world look bleak even in my brightest day, what is it that’s holding me back that I can’t break away from. Like a grey curtain over my eyes, it dims any light that comes in.

I’ve had my dance with death and I’ve left it standing, but life has done the same with me and I’m wondering who’ll be in the right by the end of this ordeal.  Standing here, everything looks so distant. Even time. Who knows how long it’s been now. I know when I came to be. But when did I become like this. And maybe… I’m scared of what I’ll end up becoming.