Deceptions.

From this road to that road,
the one opposite to where I stand, today
from that footpath to that corner,
I learned walking,
That ditch you see right next to the corner,
is where I fall off the first time at the first step I took,
From this road to that road,
I have travelled this far,
to where I stand today.

That shade you see,
where when it rains it rhymes in the dark surroundings,
that bench under it,
is where the old man I saw,
he was feeble, tired and hungry,
his son died of cancer,
money was the only thing he kept asking for,
I was so busy hearing the rain,
writing my own deceptions in its rythm,
I ignored the sound of his pleads,
that shade you see,
where when it rains.

That cotton candy man,
right next to that pathway,
was once giving them for free,
I stood there for I had money,
but, he was crowded,
faces I could see all were dark and hands they raised to grab were thin and bony,
but eyes they beheld, glittered,
in happiness to surprise,
for a new happening to cross their way,
I stood there with my same blank eyes,
to that cotton candy man,
right next to that pathway.

From that road to this road,
where I stand, today,
in all my voyage I cried, I wept.
I kept re-counting all that I have lost,
All that's never going to come back,
from rain to blazing sunlights,
I kept looking back.
But, those around me,
a woman with a child in her arms,
a man with a leg broken,
a blind father,
they, anyhow, well, kept striving to run off from what they lost.
Lost through fate,
hopes dangled around their heads all day long.

From that road to this road,
I have walked,
where the world of ultimate pain and loss around me has been ambling.

For a moment,
but, I thought,
maybe the pain I have is merely a deception to that of I have around me.
Around me, beside me and besides me.
From that road to this road,
WHERE I stand, today!

For in pain in misery, I have found the hope for happiness to come cross my way.

Towards acceptance.

As I'm writing this, one part of me makes me feel maybe this is the last time I'm writing something, something maybe written with a little feeling. Or perhaps, I won't be able to write again, ever. For last 2 hours, been struggling to sleep, it's a nice antidote for a number of things. But, few people are lucky enough to get it, others just strive.

Alot of things going around me, political aspects more higher precisely. Almost everyone around is being "Rational" and those Rationally thinking people might highly dislike me for writing this or maybe think of me as too childish or complaining or etc. But, I've let gone off thinking. 

Sometimes, you want to say out, others you need to. At the moment, I feel like I'm in dire need of saying it out and I don't want it to be revealed aswell. Problems usually arise when we don't respect the Difference in personalities, the way we're, the way others are. And, maybe Im kinda afraid of what I may have to listen what I've been listening always. Anyhow. Let's put a full stop here to my scattered messy thoughts. 

On one dark narrow road,

there stood one tree,

tall and shady,

twisted branches and a tough woody trunk,

there on it, was a nest,

Shaky and vulnerable,

so a day the baby fell out of the nest,

the wind blew so fast that night,

the nest fell off the road,

the tree shooked so hard,

the baby frightened and hungry cried,

cried in pain and misery,

stared at the broken nest,

for days, from days to months and years,

then he got tired staying on the road,

on one dark narrow road,

for he desired flying high,

he took flight and fell off,

but, he gave up not,

for he feared being shooked up like his nest,

days passed, so does years,

he learnt flying high,

so high that now he feared the dark narrow road,

that one dark narrow road....

It's incomplete. Because, I couldn't think of an ending. Maybe beacuse it ended right away when it started, with no twists, no confusions, but merely the reluctance towards acceptance. Accepting maybe it's time to stop playing your unnecessary part in everyone's life. Perhaps in your own life aswell. 

2:08 Am

Monday, May 13. 

Maybe.

Pieces, pieces everywhere,

shattered and scattered she maybe,

lost in her ownself,

or seeking peace everywhere,

far away at the skies,

darkest at this hour of nights,

quiet wind she speaks to,

that brightest star,

next to the moon in that horizon,

she stares at for hours,

pieces, pieces everywhere,

shattered and scattered she maybe...

Far away from the light,

in the shade of nothingness,

she smiles at the pain of numbness,

for if there's nothing to feel about,

then why's it Nothing that she feels about,

hours of uncertainity but days of faith,

scattered or shattered she maybe...

The pen's now broken,

the ink leaves blots on the floor,

she walks silently,

for to be found out another time is one thing she's fears,

for what's found is then lost she bears,

pieces, pieces everywhere,

shattered or scattered she maybe....