Broken window
I’m the stone she put through the glass
Of her own room
I will not default on my blame
But what of the hand I was rested in
Ever so innocent
Weighing on broken shoulders of guilt
Fractured to shards
And the stone prays for miracles
May she learn, unharmed

My life is beginning
to feel like
a patchwork quilt
of deadlines
and tasks.
Even doing nothing
has started to seem
like something to do,
just another thing
to check off my
list,
with a certain amount
of time allotted for it,
and a clear time
to move on to
the next thing,
lest I fall behind.
Weeks,
days,
sometimes even
hours
are divided
and categorized
by what I should be
doing
in them.
I don't allow
any passion projects
too engrossing
or time-consuming
for fear of
losing
              myself
                              in
 ­                                     it
and forgetting my responsibilities.
All I can think
when my heart
nudges me to
read a book
or
write a story
is that I have
no time,
no time,
no time
for such things,
and that I must be
conscientious before, and over, content.

You have made that child
Handle your responsibilities
Just always be there
And show that you care
You have been negligent in your duties
This is definitely not a good sign
Wake up and realize that life is not a game
Or else, you will be the one to blame

Deep inside
Somewhere at the bottom of heart,
somewhere in mind
a thought runs,
a feeling remains
There is this thing called love for life,
which ceases to die.

A sense of attachment makes a way for sense of understanding
Responsibilty comes next on the list of priority,
then comes possession,
a feeling that can neither be ignored,
nor can it be denied.

Till now I was part of team,
however, as of now I want to lead the same.

So if you want to be a leader nothing wrong in it,
but always understand responsibility brings along with it a sense of trust that needs to be developed on own,
by one's own experience.

papers take on liquid form
i am drowning in them

I remember every single bitter goodbye I've ever had to say. Left alone here in this town, though I was never forced to stay.

There are ghosts I've left behind me and there are ghosts that still remain. I can feel their haunting presence every single stupid day.

How they tear at all my motives and pull on every string. Leave me choking on my failures. The whispered voice of muted things.

Am I just some bitter tourist dragged by my wrists through private hells? Am I author and conspirator writing the stories in which I dwell?

To what extent am I  responsible for this situation that I'm in? Am I really as alone as I have always thought myself to have been?

There is little I am sure of and fewer still of which I know, but I know that I am dying and that I'm still not ready to go.

I have unfinished business. I just thought that you should know.