there are just some moments in your life,
yet so vivid in your mind.
a different person,
a different sofa.
singing while sobbing;
tears raining over skin like falling stars.
clueless about everything,
an empty ache lingered.
why do i always start bawling when at home and singing songs of old? ahhHH
with her two dimesional spectacles
and security blanket hair,
she embodies the saying -
'there is a thin line between love and hate.'
and now i'm teetering off the edge,
blind to where i fall.
the same both ways.
she views the world in a narrow way but.
a whirlwind of perspectives
coalesce into a tale
so multifacted, akin to history.
will i ever know all the sides there are to me?
or shall parts of me too
remain in the dust of what's beyond reach.
an untold, undiscovered self.
Like how history has a dominant perspective to an event i wonder what is my side that most people perceive.
And another fear of my list of many fears is of course the fear of not knowing myself.
the guitar riff
strums my heartstrings ,
plucking and letting go
with the soft unmarred hands of a child.
time turns one last time
before this memory too,
as half of my essence had before.
leaving my marred hand
with no story.
the child is a past self.
I am so scared of growing up and forgetting all these tiny miniscule details of the whole picture which is my life. I seem to be forgettinng everything, every story and i don't want to grow old with a hazy memory of what i used to be before.
with his hard set mouth
and his innocuous horns.
those deep dark eyes
juxtaposing the soft planes of his form.
yet open to the touch.
he treads on clear water with a vindictive strut
to reach no destination;
an inner self personified.
tethered to a string
into the early hours of dusk.
the blue and purple triangles
merging as one.
the times of what has passed,
stolen sweets and mirthful eyes
crinkle in the sunlight.
mindless chatter fills the abyss
as the torrent sea laps at the feet
of the storyteller and the lamb.
little boy, alight with glee
turns to his father
encompassing the boundless expanse
on the empty field,
not a flower sways.
the sea once turbulent, whispers in his wake.
a story, a tradition between two individuals.
a feeling of mustard
sweeps through me
it's esoteric strokes
cradling my essence,
pooling at my feet,
downing in drowsiness.
-if sunny was a feeling.
the sun as a painting and a feeling. (trying to get back into writing and being more consistent.