Words elude expression
And on pages blank,
No ink splashes emotion.
Words refuse to materialize.
And when parched lips part,
No secrets elicit nourishment
To the bleeding heart.
Colours play hide and seek.
And inside bland lives,
Never do hearts find a reason to beat and beat and beat.
Expression survives without the crutches of words.
And even the blankness of pages
Become evidence for the empty hollowness gnawing inside.
But often, blurred words escape the rhizome of parched lips
As they quiver and quiver in hopelessness and speak a tongue of their own.
Bland lives fail to seek colours and remain bland
Their world turns into a living coffin
While the dead caravan of numerous bones breathlessly goes on and on and on.
What is life without pain?
Whatever it is, is in vain.
What is pain to do in life?
If not help us rise above strife.
Why our soul do we bare?
Why is a moment of happiness rare?
Why in eternal delirium we exist?
If not to find destination past the mist.
And we still praise our life
and seek a petaled handle to a knife.
And we still go on to breath and breath
For we hope for heaven and soul to meet.
I often forget the count
of the times when
taunts that pierce like arrows
have wounded me.
I do not remember if
it was once
or a gazillion times that
I have tasted the dust
mixed with the red of my blood.
I, however, smirk a little
everytime I fall to the ground.
I then get up again
and begin my fight once more.
I only hear people around me
singing along to the melody of love.
But I sing a song of courage
and the caravan of life goes on...
Hope is a door, a window or
a tiniest space, a thinnest line
between being and vaning
Hope is a victory, a triumph or
a feeling of it, over not just fear
but over the depth and darkness that
Hope is a word, a small word
in a huge world, an infinite world.
But he who has hope