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I shall write again

I shall write

and write again of courage

my crippled mind yearns,

thorns and shunted truth

I'm laying out my heart tonight.

You'd try, often,

in the shade of phoney appraisals

to make sense out of emotion,

but tears never knew the answer to your "Why?"

for it was like a raindrop

pouring gently away from the ache

settling on the tender skin

bursting through the clouds of agony.

I shall write

and write again of the fear

that never had to be justified,

dwells in harmony,

buried inside pages of chaos.

I walk on the pit

that burns every time

the graves of discarded ideals

and skeletons of the past

as I watch.

I wish I held onto the ashes tighter,

I wish I held onto their cry closer,

I wish I could lay a flower on the dead

and all they'd wish was for me to hear them.

Nothing I am without all that I think

nothing I shall be without the ink,

nothing, into which, I shall seep,

nothingness shall surround me

nothingness shall latch itself to my mind,

yet it would bear a voice

yet it would weigh more than reasoning

yet it would have to be heard.

I shall write

and write again

until my silences restore

their calm and innocence,

all that I choose to write

shall be lost in its own meaning

for their lies no meaning to the lost.

To live as a naked tree

branching and ill-mannered

that knows all the secrets of an eternal loss

yet detests the cherished fruits of solitude,

for it'd been taught by man

to survive as the morally righteous stranger

and to exist amongst those

who've preached more than understood,

losing more leaves than

it could ever bear.

I reside under a roof

built of crumbling walls and ideologies,

coated by your excuses and corroded beliefs

about those prying eyes of the society;

you appear to live carefreely

but fear your children

for their shallow eyes shall never entrap them

but those fading morals shall have always

moulded and defined your existence.

Is it not you who've taught me that truth is subjective,

that values and beliefs are deceptive?

All that I've learnt and of all

my childish mind was a fool to;

you might not read this

for you'll always be blinded by parental pride,

but I blame you not

for you, too, were never heard,

but I am unable to shed a tear upon your misdeeds.

I shall write

and I can always write again

about the rarest of cherished memories

but I'm afraid that it is me

who shall be a bearer of your uncounted sins

and the multiple cuts on the paper

that was born with the virtues of my smile.

I've learnt of the loss

but am yet to learn about solitude;

on certain days I am an empty bottle

tossed into the sea,

floating without feeling,

unable to cherish the warmth of the sun

and uncertain to

the deepest blues of the water.

I shall write

and write again

until your fine axe yields

of a quintessential oppose

pierces and intoxicates the blood of the mind

that'd only begun shape

a relentless thunder of thoughts

flowing on my pages

as a magnanimous stream of gentle wine.

I shall put my pen down,

you'd think of a win

after you've had my hands tied

and after, you chant

a song of divide and cherish your victory,

remember that there shall always be

eyes that will stare at you,

a head that will never bow down...

....for the head is made of flawed timber

and holds the shade of a sweet aroma,

that of almost merry almond leaves,

standing tall through storms,

born from shallow minds

that'd foreseen an impending doom,

yet those minds have found their shelter

under me.

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