विषय :आखिर सहचालकले ठाउमै पुर्यायो
Gentle, polite, so nice and lovely;
The things that i would love to be.
I could have changed to make you happy.
Is there a possibility if you can love me?
But how could i change in one single night?
How could i paint myself forever?
While your heart is beating for white.
Maybe i may try to try; however;
I am the darkest shade of black.
How could i take it back?
I guess i am gradually getting mad.
But it's okay. I have always been bad.
But you've never seen me like that,
Just because of this i feel so glad.
We aren't the passengers of the same way.
The dream of the dreams come true; seems so far away.
Can i hug you for the first time? How could i say?
I would want more and more than anything to stay.
We can do that in another day; but it's not today.
I wish i could kiss you once, no matter it's place.
I wish i could be the reason of smile;
that on your face.
But you should know that; anymore there is no chase.
I'm going to carry it until the day i die; your trace.
Your deepness inside of my heart;
The reason why i am falling apart.
My first english poem, i hope you like it.
Waiting for you is like
Being the passenger on a bus next to the window seat.
No matter how crowed it gets.
No matter the amount of stops the driver makes.
Being next to the window is the best seat.
Viewing the world inside out.
The nooks & crannies, a part of you that is rarely seen.
Being the passenger
Lost in thought.
Waiting for you gives a certain sensation.
The sensation that there is something to be had,
building great anticipation.
Giving a chance to sit back & reflect.
Thinking the thought of maybe if not this stop.
Maybe it's the next when the driver finally hits the air brakes.
Being the passenger next to the window.
Viewing the world inside out.
The nooks & crannies, a part of you that is rarely
But eventually every bus has to make it's last stop.
No matter how long the ride
In empty the eyes of not udivlenie,
Not cowardice, not vice,
Not to new feats aspiration
And not humility vow.
In the empty eyes of the living plasma,
That state of matter,
Where there is no irony, sarcasm,
But the words are jumbled.
In a separate heap the days of the week
Vibrate one tourniquet.
Behind them are book sections
And rhymes rolled into a coma.
Familiar street names,
Go policy, slouch.
Behind them is a gray wall.
Of course, there are memories,
Such bright lights,
Where pleasures and sufferings
Go to the station these days.
i am tired of being the passenger in my life
watching it happen while not being present.
i want to steer my own destiny towards a happier and blissful place.
taking action instead of waiting for nothing to happen
waiting and waiting
why nothing is right.
you do not wait.
you should not wait.
you should take action.
Just sitting alone, thinking about how life is dictated to you. No self expression. Should always follow the norm. I am tired. I want to be me. I want to explore how I want to. Be who I want to. Do what I have to do!
Life is so precious, so short;
You never know what is around the next bend;
Heartache and sadness,
Or love and joy;
Going along with the flow,
Accepting your fate;
You are but a passenger,
With no control over your destination;
Take the wheel;
Make your life yours again
A tightness in my lungs pulls me under in a spell of forced muteness.
I slide my view up out of the rattling car.
The starry sky lighting up my irises and dazzling my brain.
Meanwhile the glops of tears forming in my eye drag the streetlights across my visible world.
Light torn away from its source
for only me.
Me, a crying passenger.
Dressing, I slip into my jeans
Brush my hair while looking
At my reflection in the mirror
Old and betrayed
My nerves already frayed
'Too low for zero'
My mind-clock registers
Age was just a number
Until you are really there
I don't mind the graying hair
A new line somewhere
It's the mind, the death of love
Love for my existence
And the bleeding persistence
That ****** dance with forgetfulness
But one thing I can't forget
As I stand dressed and ready to face
The demon of my drudgery
My head starts to throb
I foresee an attitude
It's in his grudging old bearing
I foresee a bad day coming
I try to convince me not to care
Indifference and rude commentary
'I don't like to be seen with you in public'
A joke, a sarcasm said, I smile
But inside my stomach turns to bile
Distancing is the fastest way to salve
Need to escape from the space of the car
It's suffocating space with scenes in halves
One side of the view; the passenger
At home I become a wishful thinker
Independence, freedom from
Shadows, deceit and hollow looks
Hide I do, in sleep and whatever books.
Mental abuse can happen to anybody, even the usually strong. I am not a victim, but a person who can sometimes be at my lowest. I find a car an intimate space which should be respected but is sometimes used as a corner.