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Flipping through nothing
But empty pages
Made me realise,
You see much further
With an open heart
And iridescent eyes.
Are you looking or seeing?
a distant thought of
an intimate dream where
my life depended on me
putting emotions into words
writing something
that makes me think
of myself as a decent and productive
human being
somewhere in the herd,
trying to raise the bar
of  critical thinking
in a thoughtless world
it wasn't so mechanical
so I would be on autopilot
but rather its a journey
a transformation,
always growing
perplexed yet again
at that thought of being
satisfied and optimistic,
looking into the mirror
vacillating as always
who am I today?
what will I get done?
being involved in another
facade or just flow
like water
lacking pretence,
waiting to be profound
over the baggage of rebound
longing both to be
known and hidden,
letting the significant moments
of my life
pass in little incidents
will I take these words
and dive in deep?
or simply give up
and go to sleep?
What if I had to write for my survival?
Will I survive?
there's a fight
but also
within me
who will win today?
will I be cheerful or despondent,
hopeful or sans it,
I just wish to
win over yesterday
for it is
my enemy.
we go on,
I feel like an open book
not just some words on paper,
with still some story to tell
trying to mean something greater.
perpetually surrounded by stories but finding one for yourself is almost like a needle in a haystack!
the feeling forward
instead of backward
for a change,
triggering my body
into whole new
as if I never had
any urges before
this time,
when our lips met
it killed
the innocence
of crawling
before running,
which my heart was,
faster with every passing moment
like a drunken semaphore
of hormones raging
inside and out,
the brevity of time
and of life
clearly out of the window,
for when we collide
to come together
instead of falling apart,
like this poem
not a reckless serenade,
then it hit me
a moment lost in creating one
when she fixes me,
would be a pity
to know we can't
go back.
my thoughts,
for some
that can't be
The paradox of alcohol: it does help with erasing bad memories and creating equally memorable ones.
yet another quiet reverie
precursor for a life forgotten
snatched away like the dreams I never had
of lush green valleys around the mansions,
fancying a meal of venison
in a clandestine shade of night
sparkling wine was a flavour of few,
lying awake at night
with a lover by my side

raucous laughter coming from all around
kind behaviour of the family makes you astound,
as a whole rather than a half
all together cherishing your art

lives were made and ruined in the night,
take it from an artist for losing everything in sight

a kleptomaniac of not just thoughts but words to boot,
fishing for inspiration while straightening my suit

scrambling for meaning even in the delusions,
living in denial rather than waking up from illusions.
Maybe in my dreams, I'm an artist.
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