He was bereft of people Genuine ones For loyalty and love was all he wanted As that's what he dearly wanted to spread Albeit never received in return His principles were of utmost importance But the world wasn't ready for it He wanted to express That hidden voice, behind the cobwebs That encompassed it due to mind's passivity Whomsoever he told, shunned him entirely For their primitive minds weren't ready for it He wanted to break societal shackles To demolish archaic norms And address the Taboos But he was afraid of the criticism he'd receive And then one fine day he saw a door To a land of expression Where others of same sentiment resided And they welcomed him with open arms There he got a quill of magic And weaved poetries and proses Expressing all the emotions Unabashedly and unapologetically Paying no heed to abhorrence Thus making bonds of literature With fellow literary magicians Inferring that the bond became much stronger He could open up Share his thoughts and feelings Write about his deepest thoughts Whilst being unaffected by dogmatic voices Who'd pry on his ability And he received abundant love Something he never expected Shedding his pendantic attribute He became optimistic Staccato of opinions in outer world didn't matter And soon the vortex diminished Of betrayals and heartbreaks For it held no gravitas anymore His journey wasn't over yet It had started, the one that he claimed was Enroute to positivity Hence, he was relieved Breathing the fresh air Oozing out of the words His quill inked And inebriated by the response He received
I know you receive a lot of criticism on a daily basis, some from me as well but deep down I know that you do what you do to keep the lights on this platform alive. So, thank you for everything that you do.
P.S. Thank you so much for all the wishes. I'll forever be grateful for that.
Are fallacies believable? Betwixt affable verdant forest Enameling wabi-sabi with a vocation To distort clandestine abendrot Of a solitary soul standing With fulcrum of mollifying vanity
Like opening a Pandora's Box Stardust breaks perniciously While vespertinal beings strutter With paucity of hope Zephyr kissing the dense trees Announcing vortex's arrival
Debonair attribute is rare A dendrophile must possess Who is cloistered sedentarily In a verisimilitude abyss In search of utopia When all that prevails is dystopia
Perfidious are those recluse For their beliefs are esoteric Impertinent to those ludicrous And arduous to those cantankerous Making convalescence a rigmarole When sanity is snatched scathingly
Some roads lead you home And some pester peripheral panic Valiant are those who counterfeit the way Encroaching Fear itself Demarcating Mayhem discreetly Hence, eradicating nugatory conjecture
Leading the way is The Sun Frolicking the rays to call a meeting As resilient holler is heard Foreseeing a prominent confabulation And at such rendezvous one deciphers The eccentric omniscience of Komorebi
Peace and tranquility seem like a dream to me. So ironical though, as dreams are the reason for my misery. These dreams, they don't allow me to shut my eyes as they fear their existence would never become a reality. They fear they'll be another forgotten chapter. Hence, they pound on my imagination to carve their place.
I'm tired now! Tired of dreaming. Tired of telling myself that the silver lining is just around the corner. Tired of reminding myself that the gazebo of darkness will lead me to my home, to my sunshine. Tired of pacifying myself that this too shall pass. Tired of consoling myself, for this is just a phase.
My heart wants to take control but my head won't leave the throne. I guess I gave too much power to it as now it possesses more than me. Forcing me to relinquish control over my very own body.
As a kid, dreams fascinated me. For how our imagination could construct a world of itself. Where everything goes according to our desire. Nothing to worry about at all. And in this procedure of faking a world, I lost control on the real one.
I have no idea what I want anymore. Do I want to put a smile and believe everything will be fine, or do I want to stay betwixt the cobwebs of the dark attic where I'm a prisoner currently? For I've lost track of everything. Discombobulated to the core.
A book For me Is not just An inanimate object I rather consider it As a companion Imparting wisdom Through the stories Of Women and Men Revelatory, glorious, fiesty Or vulnerable, volatile, anarchic
Helping me To escape reality And open doors To unknown locations Showering meteors Of poetic verses Teaching me magic or fighting Providing me clandestine insights In order to decipher The meaning Not of the words But those blanks or spaces In between them For those are the primary notions An author wants The reader To feel