In a fallen state.**

Looking at friends and family—
Seeking guidance in their daily lives.

They struggle with losses they are too ashamed to
share all because of their psyche.

If I interact I am nosy.
If I complain I am stubborn.

I can't mind my own business because of our connections.
————————
I investigate relentlessly and ask nothing but questions.

In my own world…
I spend my time in a delirious state—
Some would describe it as a ticking time bomb.

Like trends that never end.
Better yet addictions.

Some days are like picnics with an abundance of food—
The rest of the week is comparable to dew coming as a signal to the crack of a thunderstorm, soaking everything in water.

I stretch my youth out in limbo.
A perfect pause for—
“The Scream.”

I writhe in my downfalls with droplets of rain devising my tears like water going through pipes.

I can say…

Many of you suffer the same way and are confused in your youth.

With feelings for one another.
Our sympathy does not support the struggles of being different.

As it is now…there is a distance between you and me.
And there is nothing more to do than wait for your brush to be revitalized.

Your strokes would radiate the board with colors, colors so vibrant they make a pedestrian walk back the second time.

Knowingly, I cannot watch over you….
So I will look you directly in the eyes as I will tell you this.

Everything seemed clear in the morning
The dreams I had written like verses for him
Were stuffed into the bin
The room…it stinked of love
And it was clear to me
May be he was also not the one
I had stepped on my pride again
And now my ego was on a rise
Asking me never to fall for any HIM again
Celebrated by reading verses of Batalwi
And danced….
The room was filled with the melody
My mother would have once enjoyed
When she would have been of my age
I was trying to tell myself
I am bigger than this
My dreams were bigger than this
It was not aching that hard
Because this stale feeling
Is all I have tasted
So it’s fine .

How tragic is it?

We all yearn for the same thing

Love.

Yet we fail to offer it.

Not to others. Not even to ourselves.

We’re all hurting for the same reason.

Our desires are identical.

But we choose to endure the pain

and let those around us suffer as well.

We hold back love,

then lament that we never receive it.

How tragic.

Everyone defines love differently.

But at its essence

we all crave the same thing.

Yet we’re molded to believe in varying forms of it.

And now,

we neither know how to give it

nor how to accept it.

How tragic.

We fail to find love

in our own homes,

in our own circles.

So we search for it

in strangers,

in fleeting encounters,

in harmful places.

How tragic.

We live in a breathtaking world,

yet we seek beauty

in someone’s thoughts,

in a verse of poetry,

in the pages of a book.

We discover love

only in ink and paper,

and the more we uncover it there,

the more it pains us.

Every day.

With every passing moment.

How tragic.

We lack the one thing

we need most

the very thing

that defines

our humanity.

How pathetic is it?
We all long for the same thing
Love.
Yet we don’t give it.
Not to each other. Not even to ourselves.

We’re all suffering for the same reason.
Our needs are the same.
But we choose to suffer
and let those around us suffer too.

We withhold love,
then complain that we never receive it.
How pathetic.

Everyone has their own definition of love.
But at the core—
we all want the same thing.
Still, we’re shaped to believe in different forms of it.
So now,
we neither receive it
nor know how to give it.
How pathetic.

We don’t find love
in our own homes,
in our own circles.
So we search for it
in strangers,
in fleeting moments,
in unhealthy places.

How pathetic.

We live in a beautiful world,
yet we search for beauty
in someone’s mind,
in a line of poetry,
in the pages of a book.

We only find love
in ink and paper
and the more we find it there,
the more we ache.
Every day.
Each passing day.

How pathetic.

We don’t have the one thing
we need the most
the very thing
that makes us
human.

That's me what I'm now, my life is certain.
You'll call me, and I'll say: 'Hello, I'll call later.’
You'll answer: 'OK. I got it. No problem.'
And I'll left with a guilt that you're a waiter.

The time will trip forth, to feelings athwart.
And you'll await for my call all the same.
My answer to you is my heavy load now,
My refusal words and short tones after them...

And you'll await for my call until last,
Until your last profound sigh.
If I could turn all things around,
I'll call you back after a while...
Forgive me...

1 Ring
5 Rings
10 Rings
20 Rings…

I was just sleeping—
walking down the stairs
with heavy feet.

The window cracks
shining light to my face—
tempting me back to bed.
Opposite of a charming kiss
given unto a princess in slumber.

…

But I cant go to sleep
as she doubled the rings on the door.

So I opened the door
and like a dead corpse,
I faded by the light.

“Ahhh.”

At that moment
I remembered what I dreamt of…

“Lying and Semaniusly”
Blurted out
as I realized
I was already blocked?

“That makes no sense!”
I thought to myself.

Why would they do that?
What was the reason for it?
Was it necessary?

All of these questions
and my mind was tied
to the self-deprecating rings
that stopped me
from searching in this dream.

———————————-

To acknowledge
that I left the dream confused
was frustrating.

But cleanly
I came out of the dream—
and had to check
if it really was a dream…

Contumely so—
I left with a new word.

“Semaniusly”?

I feel compelled to speak my mind—
hectic to nothing else but the air trapped in my heart.

Butterflies in the stomach, yet nothing near the heart.

Lost in thought, trying to find what’s right, this ”divine reverence.”

We have in one another—these leaps of faith similar to stockings.
Chances of increase and decrease are fixed and  100% of the time it is crashing.

Economy makes the shots, always putting synchronization first.

Individual lives are startled and judged by their apparent fans.

What would I know? Kept my mouth shut, people worked differently.
That makes us more of individualists then we claim to be.

As I take a picture of you, I sacrifice a fraction of my life—recollecting your actions and words in one picture everytime I take a look.

At the end of the day we are individualists, so to write about you is a whole different story.

Only by the components of our life could we waste time on one another.

If you could make me second in command, I would make you first…
To be with a Guppy as close as me.

Butterflies are flying around—on a bright sunny day.

Butterflies that are a honey brown— as the crust of the sun.

Flying around because the sun is out.

Not to hide or hibernate in their cocoons.

Concealing themselves from the outside world—not doing that today.

They can't inherit the trait of being anti-social, because they are not human.

At least not in this season, because it is bright outside.

Not being contrary to anyone’s belief.

Not worrying about the input or the output.———
These butterflies are free, scavenging around for places to hide.

Although the night had ceased, the Sun.

They—> Butterflies,
ran around like elephants encountering mice—
or humans encountering roaches.

Looking for a tree to settle on, as if there were not numerous amounts outside.

Out of all the figures outside—
It chose to stand by me?

The spot on my skin that is the most rough.

The spot on my skin textured like trees.

The spot on my skin that looked like the trees.

“Oh.”

Realization then dawned on me, just like that the sun woke up like a new idea—
and the Moon left to attend a party on the other side.

Like the Moon, the butterfly flew away, back onto the tree with a newfound realization.