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#ficticious
'Once upon a time' and 'Many years ago'; I begin with an idle thinkers' reminisce- A past, flowing into the future As a waterfall cascades down the valley I am delicately delivered, Intricately fed into the senses of a curious listener- I am words, sometimes arranged into a ballad, Sometimes haphazard and tragic; I'm known by speech and the word of mouth, My identity laced into the syllables that people whisper, And sometimes it slips into the conversation out of the blue; I wonder and wonder, As I find myself moulded into verses that don't rhyme I begin to question the veracity of my existence Dubious as I am, I find- myself compiled in wrinkled volumes of pale history books, Sometimes constructively reconstructed, from my toe up to my hood Fabled into gossips, garnishing lunch and dinner; My world reduced into words- sometimes a saint, other times a sinner. I find bits of me scattered around in peoples' lives, bigger stories, But not a minute passes When I don't loath or despise, The shallowness of perception As my depth is undermined. Unknown and unfortunately misunderstood, My story carries on and on- Masked by words that fail to define, Who, what and why I am Slowly ageing and spent away by time. Alas, I lie untouched: Abysmal, surrounded by darkness- Alone, having become the perfect manifestation of what they'd thought of me, My words are fiction and so am I, And this, this is my story. (https://theextrainextraordinary.wordpress.com/)
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Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
priya-ratti
A Ficticious Existence
'Once upon a time' and 'Many years ago'; I begin with an idle thinkers' reminisce- A past, flowing into the future As a waterfall cascades down the valley I am delicately delivered, Intricately fed into the senses of a curious listener- I am words, sometimes arranged into a ballad, Sometimes haphazard and tragic; I'm known by speech and the word of mouth, My identity laced into the syllables that people whisper, And sometimes it slips into the conversation out of the blue; I wonder and wonder, As I find myself moulded into verses that don't rhyme I begin to question the veracity of my existence Dubious as I am, I find- myself compiled in wrinkled volumes of pale history books, Sometimes constructively reconstructed, from my toe up to my hood Fabled into gossips, garnishing lunch and dinner; My world reduced into words- sometimes a saint, other times a sinner. I find bits of me scattered around in peoples' lives, bigger stories, But not a minute passes When I don't loath or despise, The shallowness of perception As my depth is undermined. Unknown and unfortunately misunderstood, My story carries on and on- Masked by words that fail to define, Who, what and why I am Slowly ageing and spent away by time. Alas, I lie untouched: Abysmal, surrounded by darkness- Alone, having become the perfect manifestation of what they'd thought of me, My words are fiction and so am I, And this, this is my story. (https://theextrainextraordinary.wordpress.com/)
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