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.