Throughout the momentary lie, we observed the pioneers of tremors in an autonomous plight. Current manifolds of dystopia were accusations on the wailing truths of desperate corners.. Once the imaginary folds of entity were observed, the current independence would have been a courtesy of a greater purpose. Yet, the silence was the only solution to the shattered backbone...
----------
The little red riding hood looked up in horror..
"Why are you so depressed?" she said as she closely observed the wolf.
"It's the dark side of the medallion.." said the wolf, with a voice coming deep from his thoughts.
The girl looked a lot more inquiring:"Why are you so depressed?" she said as she closely observed the wolf.
"It's the dark side of the medallion.." said the wolf, with a voice coming deep from his thoughts.
"What.. why do you write these pieces?"
---------
I sometimes wonder if this life is on suspended animation.. Is it the subliminal message that these writings serve?
Then I hit myself with the simple remembrance of what I am. I am what? What am I?
It becomes an oblivious path that trails of to the realms of ember.. I feel the heat..
I feel the heat rushing to my cheeks..
Why do I write these pieces?
People ask me, are you ok, is there something wrong..
Is there, I ask myself, is there something right?
A post-percussion stage of silence into the beats of anticipation
A knowledge disparity subject to confined allegiance
I yonder within a cell with limits
I try to inhale but the extrovert blots are impeccable of the diminished mistakes of a single entity
While the most delusional stages pass through what seems to be an orphan solstice
The rest flow gently among the wings of a firefly..
Not at all am I able to comprehend my utters of emotional traumas
They are leakages I am unable to avert
They are causal, they aren't randomized due to the pollution in the thoughts
They are constituted of the simple elements of microcosms
and the wrath of the light perception and volume tolerance that are dynamic throughout the day
What I create is the complicated blend, a chemistry
Or maybe even an alchemy
of what seems so simple and superfluous..
Yet essential
If there wasn't a hole in my soul
And the worst of me wasn't stripped away
I would be coveting for what would never be mine..
A smirk that rests ponderously on my face
A heavenly attribution that I care not to exalt enough
Then I hit myself with the simple remembrance of what I am. I am what? What am I?
It becomes an oblivious path that trails of to the realms of ember.. I feel the heat..
I feel the heat rushing to my cheeks..
Why do I write these pieces?
People ask me, are you ok, is there something wrong..
Is there, I ask myself, is there something right?
A post-percussion stage of silence into the beats of anticipation
A knowledge disparity subject to confined allegiance
I yonder within a cell with limits
I try to inhale but the extrovert blots are impeccable of the diminished mistakes of a single entity
While the most delusional stages pass through what seems to be an orphan solstice
The rest flow gently among the wings of a firefly..
Not at all am I able to comprehend my utters of emotional traumas
They are leakages I am unable to avert
They are causal, they aren't randomized due to the pollution in the thoughts
They are constituted of the simple elements of microcosms
and the wrath of the light perception and volume tolerance that are dynamic throughout the day
What I create is the complicated blend, a chemistry
Or maybe even an alchemy
of what seems so simple and superfluous..
Yet essential
If there wasn't a hole in my soul
And the worst of me wasn't stripped away
I would be coveting for what would never be mine..
A smirk that rests ponderously on my face
A heavenly attribution that I care not to exalt enough
No comments:
Post a Comment