Oh how they know how,
A dance of callousness,
A long silent stream of pain
(to the veins).
Oh it isn’t them,
It is merely your own
Stifled, tortured soul.
For I lay my life as a toast,
to a deep deathful slumber.
For no passion ignites my heart,
and no art seem worthwhile.
For no dream seem worth chasing,
and no beauty well defined.
The word best in front of friend
Was like a red traffic light
On the roadside,
For a drunk raging driver could still come,
and blow you away,
It was not for surety of safety,
It still screamed a warning.
Suddenly the fear resided,
not in the gradual fading of memories
but rather in their singular nature, provided
that when in future they be babbled out in reminiscence
they render not a companionable giggle
but rather a blank stare.
If love was geometrical,
I waited forever with
A triangle of a heart
In hope to find a match
And make a diamond
of a relationship.
But all I came across,
Was an array of alternate lines.
Perfection was nothing
But a great deception
Because with all my vision
I couldn’t see.
Expectations, thus I bred daily
(a set of disaster),
with distorted reality of things.
But fate like a grandmaster
With its intrusion, timely,
Taught me lessons with great wisdom,
But Oh Lord, does it stings!
More than anything in the world
I would simply love to be hugged
Letting all the pleasant emotions of happiness unfurl
Escaping all the dense layers of negativity, with a simple shrug
I want to be embraced without awkwardness
In a spur of moment, with no hesitation
It would be good to lean into someone with the intent to express
The deep crushing desire for comfort; for consolation.