You feel vulnerable.
You feel naked.
Your soul naked.
You want to hide your soul.
You want to warm your heart.
You want to run to the past.
Happy you.
Past, so beautiful.
Past, so easy;
‘coz it’s been lived.
It’s been seen.
You want to be child.
You want to cry.
You want to scream things out loud.
You want to sleep.
You want to be woken up like from a bad dream.
You realize your life has boiled down to most important thing.
And that when that important thing is at stake.
You wish to give everything you ever had or will ever have;
Just to not have ever faced this moment.
But wishes just remain so.
You feel thrashed.
You are bound to live it through.
You live it through.
Everything is lived through.
Everything is assimilitated.
It seems so.
But a scar remains;
Unseen, unhealed.
You are stronger.
You are thought to be stronger.
Yet a scar still remains.
And the scar oozes vulnerability.

The impulse to throw it in the ditch,
But the hope that it may fight back the clouds;
Or the sunshine, even, in the next stop.
Perhaps.
Perhaps not.
The chances I may regret if I leave it here,
And the fear that I may not rejoice the colors semi-circled after;
Or the shade, even, in the next turn.
The umbrellas that don’t open when it rains;
Or when it shines, even.
Typically YOU.

Perhaps, one day, when nothing else matters, we’ll be counted on by our words.

Believe a little more in the things you want to make come true,
Believe a little more today,
Believe a little more tomorrow,
Believe a little more every day,
And then, one day, it will come true as a truth,
And Truths are meant to be believed….

Every time I try to fly as a bird,
But they pluck the FEATHERS behind me.
Telling they are saving for me, the feathers
For I may LOSE THEM WHILE I FLY.
They promise me they would give me back one day,
But I know, promises are meant to be broken;
Especially the promises which are not really PROMISES.
Perhaps, they may give back,
But they would have already put THEIR colors on my feathers
And made them THEIR OWN;
The colors, that are not really mine.
And the feathers,
My feathers would have been decayed and destroyed for me.
Maybe, they will really give me back,
But then, I may have, eventually, been TOO TIRED to fly.

People get bored of names.
People get bored of faces.
People get bored of habits.
And then, People turn anonymous.
People, however, never get bored of anonymity.

Time is so kleptomaniac.
It steals.
It steals away your memories, your love, your joy, your dreams, every ounce of life you live. And, you just can do nothing but watch it steal.
Nothing but own as much as it allows you to, the rest unstolen, secondhand leftovers.
It’s the most cunning thief I’ve ever known.

Don’t tell me to be like somebody else.

Don’t tell me to be like somebody else.

After all, this world doesn’t run in cumulative frequencies.

Don’t tell me what’s not real.
Don’t tell me what’s not real.
Maybe, You are UNREAL too.

I hold you, You unhold me,
I wind you, You unwind me,
Torn by the strain
You will fall off UNLOVED.