The boy two doors down has the deepest blue eyes and the cutest smile. He makes me want to write love poems and listen to the slow strumming of an acoustic guitar. Preferably with him but he doesn’t know that yet.
as the victim when in truth
we’re nothing but lonely assassins
set out to scour the ruins
of Greats and mindlessly
claim what sometimes isn’t ours
I just spent my first summer paycheck on books.
No regrets. No regrets.
It’s been so long since I’ve last poured contents of my heart into distinguishable letters.
It’s a shame to admit that I have forgotten how much simple words can change the foundation of another’s being. And how deeply attach I can get with certain characters that sometimes I’d imagine them to be real.
I have forgotten how the art of writing can be so mind blowing beautiful — more so than the most radiant sunrise — because when words are written, they last for an eternity to those who remembers them.
Now thinking back on how I have forgotten such important matters, I finally realize my stupidity.
Though I’m no where near the bus stop of being a great writer, it is important for me to continue to march forward, crawl if I ever have to, until I can move no more. Maybe I’ll never reach those wooden benches where the greats have sat but at least I know that I have tried.
So this is a promise, to myself mostly, that I will continue to crawl or walk or gallop towards any bus stop until I, myself think is my final destination. Until then, just watch me as I leave tiny marks, random indents and scrawls, upon our world. Maybe you’ll like it, maybe you won’t; but all that matters to me is that, at least, I’m trying.
he speaks so freely,
with gentle caresses
after each syllable —
that he doesn’t realize
I’m weighted down
by his words
it’s probably a bad idea
to listen to sad songs
when I’m feeling
like grey skies.
I’ve lost you. I don’t know how, or why, or when – but yesterday when I saw you for the first time after a fortnight, you avoided my gaze and without a word, just walked away. Only then did I felt it. The thick, intrusive wall pushing me back into the shell you’ve first met me in. The only difference is, instead of being intrigued by my designs you turn a blind eye to the prints and swirls you’ve already seen.