who gave you the right to give me life when I never asked for it??
and who gave you the right to cry when I stopped wanting it..
How do you know who to trust
When you have two friends Who know you better than anyone But can never agree on a single thing
inner discontent over love choices
If I was a little skinnier,
If I was a little shorter, If I was taller, If I was stronger, If I was curvier, But what if I was less doubtful? What if I was less criticizing, Less negative, What if I was more positive, If I was happy with myself? Would I rise above, Would I learn to love myself and others, Could I spread more positivity? How hard could it be? What if we were was less doubtful within ourselves?
It's not enough--
Plenty of people can do what you do much better. It's not so simple--- All I can do is sift through the box and write the rhythm of the center. It's not of excellence, Nor does it make sense in the nature of what’s contradictory. It’s not enough--- I can do better, in a way I see fit. It’s not enough--- Plenty of people can do what you do much better. They can. They will. They Must.
A daily riddle
Has come to mind Where abstract words Break an abstract mind And things once healed Fall apart After the moon hits that mark Thoughts are runny Dilapidated ears hear harsh lullabies But no baby cries Just you and I Cries fit for the night The dubious night The doubtful night The dangerous night Our night
I was, to be given to someone
As a symbol of true love She was a studious one And he was an average above He wanted to give her a rose But, was doubtful and scared So he wrote her a nice prose With an ink of color red Library was her favorite place So he placed the prose with a rose And tied it with a thin threaded lace As she glanced him with a pose He placed a note and the flower In her favorite research book And waited her for an hour But she was already in a hook This broke his innocent heart As he thought his love was blooming Coz she was alone from the start Unfortunately, he kept on assuming The old books got replaced, over the week As all got outshelved in the storage No hands could reach and seek This special book in the wreckage My fragrance and youth, left me And sank within the heavy pages I am withered old, for no one to see Stuck with the unread prose, for ages Burnt in a sudden fire Few books, behind and around None was this books buyer It just laid aimless on the dusty ground A dead rose, covered within sheets Hoping to be found oneday If this book gets sold on the streets Someone might have a special day... ©sim
"I" - in this write refers to a rose.
that I'm not good enough Unconvinced and in despair, Disbelief in my own act and decisions I am doing the best I could to meet the expectations; thus I am frustrated Why am I putting a lot of pressure on myself just to seek attention? I am trying hard until gratified Why am I still unfulfilled? In fact, I am scared I fear that I may fail and may not reach satisfaction It feeds my self-doubt perhaps I am good-for-nothing
I am laying in this bed of ours
inside this home we've built wondering why you wont touch me all you speak of is your guilt you tell me how you want to change that you're needing to improve and all the while I'm laying here just wondering what to do these millions of thoughts run through my mind not one better that the next it all leads back to the same old guilt it seems I've failed the test you say that you're happy while you cry yourself to sleep but the one who's most afflicted is the one you choose to keep