To live with lies.

Yes..

And the shadows will,

cast upon your life.

Oh.. its not simple,

to live with the lies.

When ruling uncertainness 

break over your mind..

Oh!  its not simple ,

to live with the lies.

.

You back stabbed on my back.

you are never coming back its said.

But they don't know this..Now do they?

That you think often on nights and other days.

Keepsakes and gifts don’t mean a thing.

When faith and trust you try and wring

out of me..Wronging them yet again.

Have you so blissfully forgotten then?

.

That the shadows WILL..

cast upon your life.

Oh it’s not simple,

to live with the lies.

When ruling uncertainness,

break over your mind.

No it’s never simple .

To live with the lies.

-Abee.A                                                                                       Painting by me.

On the wings of false hopes.

She soared…….

On the wings of hope.

She rested her soul.

‘let it be, said she.

‘let love find me..

and truly behold.’

 .

That I exist only,

when it manifests

itself undoubtedly,

in a far ridden reality.

So I may be in rest.

Had she known ..

that she’d be alone..

yet again.

sunk into pain.

 .

On the wings of hope..   

She’d curse her soul.

she’d say, ’set me free!’

‘Let life find me..

in the death of cold.’

-Abee.A

Painting by me. >>

Alive Burning.

I’ll break and burn.

Much to your amusement,

I already am.

Hope is lost in the run.

.

of fetching dreams

in trails of time,

gathered in halos

and piercing beams.

.

I’ll fall for you.

Much to your pride,

I already did.

When you hadn’t a clue

.

of my humble yearnings

and dreary wails

in a cascade so wretched,

As though alive burning.

.

I’ll wither and fade.

Much to your bliss.

In my sojourn path

that intertwines frayed.

.

Enough said, I shall run.

On an endless boulevard.

With imploding grimness

and freedom shunned.

.

Yes. I’ll break and burn.

much to your amusement,

I already am.

With hope lost in the run.

.

I stopped writing.

oh well,

I stopped writing.

I couldn't write. I wrote and then I was blank and then again I had this strong urge to write .For the past few months I crumpled out so many paper balls,that I lost count of them.So many half written abandoned paragraphs ,so many unfinished verses of a poem that I was once going to publish. and I wondered hopelessly what was happening to me? Sure, everyone gets a creative block sometimes ..its natural. It happens and then it passes by. But the problem was it didn't pass by this time. I waited for it to, tried to bring about myself to write but every time I did something stopped me, this never happened before I was never the one to hesitate in expressing thoughts,emotions and rants, God! I could write about the most absurd of thoughts! then why was this happening now?? That question came to a shuddering halt after it whizzed in my head at a speed of f1 race car.Exactly when did I become so reluctant or started hesitating , why did I have this feeling that I wrote away too much and gave away away too much of myself in those nostalgic words and phrases .Why did it seem like I was desperately trying to hold back the door to my thoughts. It was like I was putting up a cold wall around me again.I didn't want to share and express anything of me or about me any more  Felt I let out too many secrets too much exhilarating yet tiring complex moods and yearnings. I managed to bring myself to focus just on drawing for a while. I doodled and painted random things, well at leased it satisfied my carnal hunger for art .It seemed a more "lesser"camouflaged way of expressing .Oh wow, Now I was worrying about hiding and camouflaging stuff. Great .At this point I was adamant and sure that my brain had done a complete 180 degree flip.
Mostly when you like or love writing you and the pen have a very interesting relationship .You can blindly trust the pen with your thoughts and put it down on paper and never worry of what will someone think as they read what you write, YOU never think. You don't want to ..because you are just happy writing it out that you leave no space for such idiotic questions. The vastness and enormousness of your soul implodes and spills out every thought unbound to any dilemma.Never once does it look back at the thought. It just moves and flows away swiftly and fluently.

As I rant my very own hypothetical theories about writing.I do the honour of asking myself this numbing question: Am I no longer happy of expressing myself or did the pleasure now tarnish and the faith fade? Maybe I began thinking of whatever I wrote till now as faded words on ashed black pages.Or to be more precise: Just bits and pieces of crap. I feel hopeless and gratified at the same time.Felt empty as though I had hollowfied over night. I was in a reckless state of tossing in my very own emotional black hole.Beginning to feel what Alice might have felt like as she fell. My white nights were spent in turmoil.Thousand of  supernovas burst in my head.

Is this a phase? Pain and numbness at the same time.Does it matter? or more likely ,Did it matter if I wrote and that I no longer do? Does this happen with everyone who writes? Oh well. I'll rant if I want to.This shall pass by.

I hope.