Perhaps sea was a woman,
Who lost all her hopes,
And drowned in the pool of her own tears,
Suppressing herself to depths unknown,

Sprinkled by her pacified soul.

Perhaps sea was a fair lady,
Who was only appreciated for  her color!

The thing about growing up is,
We form our rigid selves,
We bend our souls and morals as children,
And as adults we deny them.
We'd see a beggar beg and ignore his cries,
We'd see a kid pry and yet somehow walk by,
And somehow while growing up among all this,
We lose the capacity to listen high.

As adults our brim is so full,
That we loose our ability to listen.

I tend to romanticize, 
I romanticize friendships and love and all relations,
Makes them a little more than what they seem,
Doesn't it?
And maybe that's what the flaw of romanticizing life is,
Once you start romanticizing it you ignore the practicality,
That the real-life beholds,
One part of you stuck at the expectations,
And other tries to avoid the befalling of this little kingdom,
Your mind survives in,
So you romanticize bad memories too,
As if you were really dead every second someone scolded you,
Or crumpled your ***** of life,
And in this loop of romanticizing, you end up hurting everyone,
So you tell yourself to wake up,
You force yourself to be awake,
And when you finally are,
You see there never has existed a premise,
Where you were playing your orchestra.

How can I not feel lost,
When the world is new and no one talks,
Or listens to what I say,
Where do I go when no one accepts,
Not even me!
Where do I fly,
When my wings are cut,
When I have succumbed
to my own vulnerability.

These words are blank verses of my own,
They carry no soul without my tone,
I believe they have been lost somewhere,
In my crumpled life and my furrowed head.
I approach back to this,
I call it my heaven of peace,
Where I am not judged,
For my contemplation of the perceived.
But lately its suffocating my soul,
My own grace has left my dome,
Now my words don't rhyme,
Not that I care,
But where do I  vent,
When my head is  muddled,
It has forgotten its art,
Forgotten its job,
I want to write again,
I want to express,
The way I used to,
The words I sung,
From deep within my soul,
They sung  I swear,
But the art is lost now,
And my soul feels doomed,
Like a witch who has just been shot in its broom!