A little girl all unaware, jumps in a puddle, gets wet and muddy,
She sleeps in bed, covered by her mom, hugging her brown cuddly teddy.
Her dad wakes up, reads papers, comments and laments, the plight of society,
Mother undresses, and washes, searching every bit of her naked body.
For the beauty, that made the man, of the last day, to come and have her,
That man presently, is drunken and drooling, dodging of in his broken armchair.
Dreaming of his childhood lost love, who left for but no reason appealing,
She is seeing, with wide eyes now, her own husband leaving.
Her kids are dressing up in their bedroom, chatting and being all unaware,
That their mom is all heartbroken, by their daddy's secret affair.
Their dad is searching for an argument, to give the lady, no longer lovable,
His lover, The writer woman, is penning down her latest fable.
All fabricated, and sweetened, that the girl will read on her birthday,
And she will grow up, learn to cope up, and live the same life someday.
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ReplyDeleteSo, what? Why the pretense? To love is not unjust, to hide it, is. How, on earth, tow people who do not respect each others values, end up together? And still are?
ReplyDeleteI think, you have just tasted the facade of it.
Why the man needs to cry and cope up? Did not understand that? Did not understand your point of view. I think, that man crying is the one with the broom
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ReplyDeletekids walk out of cycles,
ReplyDeletetaking what is to be taken,
and leaving the rest behind.
run after cycles of perfection,
glorify ideals in our heads
as if lifes a demonstration
of how better we become
than those we leave behind.
it's always exibitionism.
a race for acclaim.
a journey of drudgery.
for others,
bullshit.
if you sit waiting for others
to come resolve your life,
to put it into perspective,
you will remain lost
in your memories.
this drunk dreams, still.
this lady knows she is capable
of love, yet is unwilling to
risk what she fears.
the little girl sees,
them lost in perfecting,
their individual ideals and
dreams, not reality.
as she jumps out of the puddle.
she knows she'll never
depend on perfection to
sanction what she wants from
her life.
cycles are made around ideals.
and she has none.
cycles are for them who want
to lose reality,
for something better.
She knows what she wants,
is what she goes and gets.
The writer writes. The Incisions on the back changes to internal haemmhorages. The instinctive poetries sometimes gives away during writing, which she says is a construct and the world believes so and says, yes...make believe fables, she has mastered.
ReplyDeleteThe one who hides behind silence is worshipped. Writing is always a painful job yet there are writers and there will be writers, because the wronged ones go to them to read their loss. The writer, the charlatan, as they are called by her friends and foes, will safekeep the world's anguish and misery in their pages, because her personal becomes universal.
As for cycle, her each work shows how she has perfected the art of non perfection.The writer doesn't even give justifications...it's just that she is on her way to be a conditioned one.
Good day folks.
my love is not kind,
ReplyDeletebecause kindness is taken for mercy
and so it shuns the brave,
of what they will not take.
and the world may stay a bereaved place
for i will not break locked
gates to find other's pains.
and when i do stumble upon
these aches unaware,
i smile. for i've known
silently finding my way
in dark dungeons, never too far
kind lights burning
their cores apart.
trying to set aflame
any dark parts.
For they don't belong
In a world ashamed
to face scars.
There are two kinds of people
ReplyDeletethat matter to me.
one who can feel pain.
others who can not.
the kind that can feel pain,
feel their own,
and that of those they love.
the other kind inflict pain,
of their own, and that of
those they love,
upon the world.
@City of night
ReplyDeleteLove you.
hey, wow. :D
ReplyDeletehugs :*
but why all of a sudden?