Holy-days

Home in one day. Fingers crossed,for my life after those 10 days.

"Class"ic scribblings

Simpering, hushed thoughts
And those forehead lines, inhabiting for eternity.
A geological age passed.
The answers remained.
Nothing quenched the constant flood,
of that,
constant need,
for peace.

SEPTEMBER, you truly are my Everest.

Converse..ALL stars.Brown.

Intoxication does good.

To a few. Consciousness,of one's surroundings. Specifically people. Especially, person. A particular one, at times. Induced joviality. And responsiveness.

Normal feels good at times.

Normal, being not very common.

Incapability, some experience, without the symbiotic relationship.

I'm quite the opposite.

Which is why, sometimes I feel. GiFTED! ;)

R.I.P

My diary had a sad demise.
A ruthless murder, by my own hands.
For crimes that I understand not. It was as innocent as could be.
FALSE.
The early signs of 'growing up', the new found love, the stories of normalcy and it's counter, the tears and joy, all together.
It was me.
And I murdered myself.
The other half is torn apart too, inside of me. Juggling and struggling between individuality and morality.
Between the storm and the great silent sea,

 all thrusting between those fingers, waiting to be unleashed.
Of wanting to tread upon those terroteries,
where the lust of words never heard, asking to string together that world of forbidden charm,
and those experiences, calling out, to be discovered.
My belly full of unsatisfied desires and thoughts painted on that canvas of my conscious and unconscious,
both ,
wanting to be understood.
Words turned hostile, backstabbed my emotions, a friend turned enemy, a snitch.
Pulled out those pages,for years who comforted me,
now stank,
of betrayal, and I left,
misunderstood.
Misunderstood for more than I had done.
For more than I had ever imagined.
The mind too, has limits;
deliberate boundaries, drawn , purposefully.
Forcing, the fickle feelings under the covers.
Thrashing through my veins, they found refuge, finally, on the pure white frame.
My diary.
MY friend.
MY lover.
My being.
All wasted away.
All stabbed, those fingers blotched with the words, oozing out of that creation,
that made me, ME..
Belittled, my esteem.
All gone.
Cornered.
Eyes stung with shock,
and heart blackned.
With shame.
With remorse.
And the murder, again.
Wrong, were not the words, nor the penholder.
Wrong was none.
Or were all.
Wrong was I, to flow with the vanity.And the untruths.
But not wrong was I , again.
Loved to be loved.
No approvals. Nor disapprovals. Just silence. Of understanding.
The life of a confidant , short lived.
But it lives on, in that minute corner, between dreams and reality,
between me and I,
between the wrong and rights.
That one creation, a friend first.
An open secret later.
But a foe?
Never.