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 Sep 2016 Mukesh kataria
Sjr1000
Your picture
Your nightstand
Three kisses daily
I   Love  You
 Aug 2016 Mukesh kataria
Lizley
You would hear the voice inside the quiet
If those words are true
No song
No poem
Nothing
but my heartbeat missing you too

Yet we would see the future from the ashes
When our eyes gaze with truth
Not yesterday
Not now
Not yet
maybe a day when we're done with youth
© Lizley (Maria Flordeliz Yamog)
|08.17.2016|
If I had replied to you that time, we'd still be two lost souls. So let's find our own ways for now and see if we cross paths again someday.
success is just about doing a bunch of little things right.
it's about going to bed when you want to stay up.
it's about putting down that extra beer every night.
it's about going for a run when you think you're exhausted.
it's about waking up early to feel better and more productive.
it's just about making certain little choices all the time:
choosing one thing over another
when you know it's the right thing to do.

it's about giving up things that you've been meaning to give up forever.
it's about not making  that one call, sending that one text.
it's about not having an opinion that matters so **** much all the time.
it's about keeping your promises, most importantly to yourself.
it's about holding yourself accountable to your goals; staying focused.
it's about being present in your body, breathing consciously, & feeling.
it's about knowing the difference between relative and absolute.
it's about understanding the idea of compounded interest on time.
it's about doing the seemingly insignificant little actions over and over.

success doesn't grow on trees...
but it certainly does grow.
it starts as a small little seedling,
barely able to stand on it's own.
then through constant care and attention,
focus and discipline, love and determination,
it grows big and tall and strong!
and the big success is sweet,
but the little ones are the sweeter.
Our maths teacher wasn’t amused.

He solved hard problems for us
taught sincerely in the class
but the moment he held the pen
sweats would flood his palm
like a nagging rain
that his army of handkerchief
couldn’t bring any relief
with the dripping moisture
like a school of sharks
devoured our paper’s ink marks
and from the workouts already done
steps were wiped out one by one.

At those times he wouldn’t speak
only looked at us apologetic
burdened as if with guilt’s weight
for the treachery of his ceaseless sweat
that forced him to desist from anymore writing
close his pen and start dictating.

Then one day we saw him bring out a cream
his agony had reached such an extreme
with that he rubbed his palms with glee
looked he had solved a great mystery
said now this would lock all the doors
stop sweat’s pour through skin’s pores
.
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