W’s

Who we are?

Whom we fight?

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The tale which has days

Another day begins and I am done,

With waking up and renewing myself.

The effort alone is not enough,

Unless the bird cries the hardest and,

It shakes the cage.

Ask me what I can do and I will say,

I will be happy for others and depressed for myself.

These different phases do not call for help,

But these apologies stay here and do not fly,

Where they should go.

They should soothe the ones I wounded.

I keep them to myself, this inability,

What are the chances of going back now.

I ask now, you and everyone,

I am not good at this thing where,

Feeling warm and sorry should be extended.

I am cold and I am swallowing many things,

To let these words pass without any hiccups.

I am sorry for things done and words said,

And I ain’t doing this to keep my days easy.

I am me, and will continue to be.

But I want you to forget your wounds and,

And just go on with the days.

You are real and good.

Stay so.

Stories of any kind

The kind of stories I want to tell,

I do not know If,

I will ever be able to tell them as they are.

To say a poor man is poor,

I will tell you about him,

And the things he did to endure the day,

And fill his belly with food.

I will tell but I will hope,

The man finds his happiness soon.

I know it will make my stories false.

But I will be truly happy then.

Feel this art we create with lives,

These lives are of humans like us.

We will pinpoint differences later,

For now, they are just like us.

I don’t want to be proud of something,

Which came out of someone’s miserable days.

I would have written about my life,

But this boredom rules the king.

Picking up a piece from a life,

And holding it against voices and opinions,

It is cruel when it emits satisfaction to the ego.

All while their origins remain the same way they were.

Our boring live must be content,

With the little crux we have.

Ordinary things are beautiful too.

I will go

I am going out tonight without any care.

I have given it to the lost sounds of the world,

Who go places with the wandering wind and shout,

To become known to people.
I will go to the desert.

Not because I am a loner or I like the sand in my mouth and eyes and everywhere.

I will go for the simple sun,

And how it gives life to everyone and everything.

I will go there for the night there does not have any secret.

They are long and cold and one part of them is nature, always.
Then I would go up in the sky.

It is foolish to think about flying.

But I like the feel of wind thrashing against my face,

And how it makes my eyes watery.

I will go up in the sky to see how blue they can be,

And what is the point where blue gives way to black.
The point of no return.

Everyone is going there, alone.

I am included too.

But not today or tomorrow,

But someday definitely.

I will go to many places.

I will even go in the future with this baggage of past.

Maybe I will see this longing as it comes to everyone.

And hope.

I will hope for everything good.

But I will not mind bad sometimes.

Running Out of Things

 

I always run out of things to write about.

It always happens. 
Then i look back at my life and try to envision what it would be like if all of my dreams were real.

I close my eyes and I fail to imagine it.

I am not able to find words. 

Mouth runs dry save for a cold breath.

If only I could tell you how it feels.

This exact feeling when I am hopeless with everything. 

When future isn’t a bright promise but a nightmare.

These cribs about an unjust and unfair existence.

Say mind is free and soul is forever young.

But mine is reduced to a failed imagination.

There are things I tried when I was desperate.

Mind me If I say I’ve lived the 24 hours of a single day inviting hope when I laboured on.

Hope came when I was down,

It lifted me into the high skies where I saw the Sun and felt its warmth on my skin.

It was all, a moment.

Hope is gone now and the Sun burns my skin.

I have forgotten the emotions I used to feel while crying.

Dry eyes ache but they do not conceal anything.

I am done with disappointments.

I have forgotten what they meant and how they affected me.

For all the care in this world,

None is for me.

Life isn’t roses and sunshine and it isn’t fair.

All I can say is that the thorns are picky about people.

Call it cynicism, pessimism or whichever word you deem right.

Doubts flicker as I know things.

There is no fight with the world.

It knows me well to spare me.

Plight is just a thing said to cover the big picture.

And this life that people so often speak about, 

They attribute words to deepen its significance.

Nothing is significant and none is worth saving.

Religion and money should be synonyms for life.

For everything said and done in this brief life of mine I have understood nothing.

I could feel love in my flesh and bones.

Only if it had something to do with my hunger.

I am hungry and this feeling is the worst there is.

I want to break out of this cycle but it is not allowed.

I must confine myself to these breaths and hopes.

Running away is not an option.