The flowers lay scattered on the floor,
A withered stone dying as the rain pounds it to ashes.
That sort of existence that spells irrational thinking,
The kind that speaks for no reason, abiding yet inane.
All I want to see was the quintessential signs to what makes a thought behind every lie made. To dispose origin for no other cause of its birth. To explain science besides the nurture we get from literacy of mankind. A fraction of solution written or expressed, to enlighten whatever chooses to hide. A blasé greeting over some idea that such commonality conveys mundane-ness.
There is no clarity in broken glasses, only shards of pain.
A joke in every smile, spells hurt.
A curse over a few valued guests, a true person revealed.
Karma beyond the measure of doubt, a ruthless sin is priced.
Speak less of what shan’t be said.
Speak more of what pleased is right.
Do more than what is expected.
Expect less than to what noble thing done.
Who could not impale himself of wishful thinking, expectations running about to some desires un-granted, wants never given, needs demised to insufficiency and life deprived out of insensate frustrations.
Closing all doors to lock yourself in, pleading that no one will open it, wishing that even you won’t give in.
To cry at the peak of what seem the shameful of situations one can hide from.
Finding some lost soul over the scarred tombs lay enveloped by moss, clothed by the gray mist, shadowed by every fallen leaf. Looking up at the skeleton of a tree that used to be this graveyards beauty, now a barren excuse for a miracle of life. Sucked by the withering storms that came passing it, all the rains that cried with it, the feared sparks of lightning that tried to lay ash on it, and those creatures that shed away precious parts from it, leaving it crawling back to growth.
Staring now at the time, the sandman knocks on my eyes telling me to foresee what lies ahead. Death by its side patiently greeting me… where could be my companion?! Am I seeing things?! Or I just make what I want to think?!
In choosing what feels best, than to love and be loved… to pursuit the idea of a humdrum emotion. People would eye me the way a criminal would feel on guilty as charged. The complexity of human sentiment over his own. The curse of apathy with trying to choose what to feel and not to express. The fear of losing the strings one so dearly tied and created. Every spool of proven time in every given moment cherished, enjoyed and experienced are the unavoidable truth that time can on no account turn back… it passes so as those that death visits a dying man.
I couldn’t lay sleep as all these stances picks like a playing piano over a dancing rumble of rocks.
Like teardrops on a rainy day.
A drop of blotted dew on a gloomy afternoon.
I have nothing. Nothing at all.
A curse of nothingness damaged to the core, bloodstained & aching. Lost in my own sarcasm. A disdain on everyone’s face. The blemish of what was done & the wounds of scars that’ll be forming soon.
