The alluring simplicity unaware of
Lies simply in everything we are
Even naked eyes aren't able enough
To notice such things considered triviality by many.

And with each passing sight
Exchanged glances across the room,
Sipping morning coffee in the awakening of the mind,
But does it really open our eyes?

Little did we know
Of the smallest matters that mean the ocean to us
But you and I will one day realise
The enormity of the world
Shouldn't have mattered that much.

Her head,
thronged with a hollow absence
rests on the mattress of her dreams,
As though succumbing to sleep,
The world may spare these glass bones their last insult.

Reality never looked so transparent.

Yet she rests with an open eye
Drowsy and awake,
leaning against her barricade;
Like a front line soldier gripping to his fast beating
Heart against the mud wall
In the middle of a flaring night.

Flaring,
like the car lights through her windows
Traversing across the four walls in
A ghostly dance of a fairytale she
Once read,
But forgotten.

Her blanket feels
Too thin.
The world
Is peeping through the onion's layers.

A woven web around her skin
Peeped through,
Like a solider's needle pin.

Funny, isn't it?
Reality never looked so transparent.

I never called it a
Writer's block or what not,
Never did.

More to just a halt of the
pen that gathers dust and sand
Than the mind's mechanism rusting
With the passing of time and
Frame.

It's your afternoon nap in that hot
Sweaty state, drinking in
the world but
Never enough to satisfy.
Words don't come as you choose
And you're left spooning your
Own mouth.

You're a servant of your own.

It's a loss without restoration,
A poet's unrequited love.

And in that state of mind
you question
the void lying
On pen and paper.

I drank in the starry sky
before me, like I've
always owned it,
Like I've always owned you.

Before I go to sleep, read me
A bedtime story,
Read me
a bedtime story.

I would like to be young again.

That I could wake in solace
From the sleepless dream of a child's stage
Where the world is of no concern,
but only fairies and knights reside.

Such magic can only be found in their eyes.

If we could never wake up to reality
To face the crippling truth that there is no such
Happiness
In the blossoming of adulthood,
Then every day of our lives would be
Beautiful.

Every day
would end with the last pages
Of a happy ever after.

And so the Eighth of November
Has come dusting off our shoulders
High-chested, heart's crossed:
America's judgement day.

And it came, like a sudden halt of a
Cliff hanger
Or a pause to an unfinished sentence,
The irony of the aftertaste -

His old man broken-hearted
Slumped anxiously in his chair
As the screen bluntly illuminates
Our long awaited nightmare.

My heart wrenched at the sight
Of his shattered face
As though hope itself became
A hopeless, endless chase.

Our path is at its foggiest
Almost unseen with naked eyes
And we had drained all our energy
To try and make things right.

But as the former says:
No matter what happens,
"The sun will rise again in the morning."

She's the girl with the matte lipstick,
Deep, bold red that flows in her veins
She throws them fierce on her fragile lips
Warning every man she's more than a kiss.

She's the girl with the matte lipstick
A deeper red than the roses she was given,
One look at the mirror and she's all set
To rule out the world with her head set high.

And she will be stronger than you and I,
For her soul is clinquant with
glittery gold
Of fading scars and past mistakes
That she will one day conquer all on her own.