They say all good things come to an end.
I believe it.
Like, how every time you come to the end of a book, but you don’t want it to end,
But you also don’t want to stop reading it.
Like how beautiful, warm mornings end in cold, dark nights you’re scared of,
But you can’t change the way of nature.
The invincible, blazing flames, burning anyone that’s too close,
Also eventually turns to dust.
Or even the part of a song that, you so want to jam to, comes on just as you’re about to park into the garage,
And you have to bring it to an abrupt stop.
The fun weekends, which you’ve waited for the whole week, ends in just a blink of the eyes,
And you’re still counting the things you didn’t get to do this time too.
Even, how you always whine about your ice-cream playing tricks on you,
Because every time you eat a spoonful, it vanishes in thin air.
Like how your first kiss, young, innocent and pure, made your heart go thump-thump against your chest,
That even I could hear.
Or your steady breathing on my neck as you lie close to me, and gentle mumbling against my skin,
But, you will eventually wake up and it’ll end.
Even the sweet morning kisses all over me, that I love so much, have to stop.
Like how this ****** beautiful 'us' have to.
The you, the me, the us.
The quarrels, the promises, the love.
But, they say all good things come to end.
I believe it. Still.
So. we have to, too.
Because all ends have new beginnings, and not all beginnings are bad, right?
Right?
I wish you find your bad, and I mine, so that it wouldn’t end this way.
So now, before you say goodbye, I want you to let go.
Because sometimes, somethings come to an end,
And it’s okay.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 1:48 PM UTC
In the corner of my memory
In the corner of my room
Lies a brown piano I've spent my life with.
In the corner of my memory
I hear music being played
Magical fingers dancing upon the keys.
In their corner of my memory
I see brown hair and brown face
But jet black eyes and a musical smile
In the corner of my room
A bully I see, against lockers
Outcast locked in its room.
In the corner of my memory
I see water. I breathe water.
No painful expression, just peace.
In the corner of my memory
In the corner of my room
Lies a brown piano,
I'm now spending my existence with.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 5:41 AM UTC
Pure and true; wings of innocence
Everything new and no clue
Different paths; right and wrong
Fall, get up and fall again.
Tainted wings; sins reveal
Chaste and veracious; demon's mate
Sins of the past uncover themselves
Guitly freed and angelic punished.
Pride, envy, greed, wrath, gluttony and lust
Distract the youth; the devil conquers
Deadly as they sound, but easy to follow
Contract signed? Sacrifice is yours.
"I'm sorry, forgive me" shouldn't be heard
Every string is now with someone else
Don't run away, don't hide; face and cope
All's too bad, but it's too sweet;
It's too EVIL...
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC
I sit here wondering, thinking
What is it that we need to mend?
Wounds, gashes, broken bones?
What is it that we need to heal?
Hearts, people, their deep-rooted wounds?
I sit here wondering, thinking
It is the people or society
That needs sabing by us
I sit here wondering, thinking
Whether what we do will make a difference.
I take a walk around the room
Unable to completely concentrate
My eyes wander off to the side of the road
A beggar, kicked; scratches here wounds there
Whom should I stitch— the beggar or the kicker?
I decide to take a walk in the neighborhood
Mentally, making a list of people
A girl sitting on a park bench, crying
Maybe she's the one with a broken trust
And hearts are the hardest to stitch.
Come to think of it, it's easy to say
But breaking apart? You shouldn't know
A man being pushed around in the streets
A black is hard to be, when
You are surrounded by racists.
I see a girl walking alone; no one around
She keeps looking back, a little insecure
I look elsewhere, I'm no more than a passerby
Quickly she runs into a shop, afraid of me
I wonder was it something I did?
I wander into a lonely alley
Heaps and heaps of litter, a boy sitting, crying
On asking, he tells me, he was lonely
His family died; in a car accident
I think he's the one needing the most stitches.
Back on my armchair by the fireplace
I sip coffee and gaze at the fire
The secrets and demons inside us
Make us hollow; and just
Like a torn fabric, we'll be needing stitches.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 6:26 AM UTC