It’s hard to dream really,
Once you finally get started,
You are bound to ask
You chose to make love
Over making money
And now you stand naked in front of the people
Asking them to like you
Some of them do,
Some of them don’t,
Why do they not?
You look yourself in the mirror
And find only flaws
Why do they even do?
A question you throw to those who love you.
It’s hard to dream really
There’s one step toward progress
And two steps to regress
Two or three,
What’s wrong with me?
Where did it go, all the glory?
Once dispersed in the air like confetti
And now there are ashes slowly floating down to the ground.
Now, I weep on my pages
On crazy outrages
Gasping for breath, floundering,
My mind madly meandering.
Maybe I would continue to suffocate,
Maybe I would continue to suffer,
And still, I would be an optimist
Even when the times are tougher.
I will cling on to the rope,
I may never give up hope,
And even when I weep,
I would think of the promise I must keep.
Of course, it’s hard to dream,
No wonder so many don’t.
And I have chosen both.
Sure, I have been upset,
But there have been no regrets,
I never stepped in with an expectation of how everything would be perfect.
And it hurts,
But also it doesn’t.
I would be honest.
I wouldn’t lie
Still each morning I need to remind myself why.
The doors are far behind,
Much farther than I thought
And even if I were to return
I will find them all locked.
So the only option is to move ahead
The real choice is between confidence and dread.
If an idiot is what they have been calling me,
Then idiot is what I would confidently be.
You have your security
And I have my dreams and my heart
I don’t know if it’s a fair trade
But I hope without too much of a fuss,
That it turns out good for both of us.
Reminding you of
failed love affairs
futile struggles of life
and the greys
everything that shouldn’t return
coming back –
memories that can’t be made again
people you can’t meet again
roads that cannot be taken
things that you shouldn’t have done
words that you shouldn’t have said
wiser choices that you could have made, but you didn’t.
when the moon peeks from the formless clouds
stars blink through the mist and dust
when the streets go quiet
and the crickets come alive
when there’s no one in the room
and just you.
Are your cheeks already wet?
Are you already missing the life that you never really had?
Dreams that were never going to come true?
Through ashes and smoke
Through spirits and songs
The world runs and runs
And in this melancholic night
you are left alone.
words have been failing me.
it doesn’t seem like there
or will be
in anything that
I have ever done
or would like to do.
the world has been failing me.
And even when it wasn’t
I feel like it always was –
more lost than ever before
because even the dream’s
been temporary lived and gone.
And there isn’t a new one that could replace and stay.
And the old one doesn’t go away,
like a ghost haunting an old house
and yet it’s just too late;
Echoes of a dying wish,
the life is gone brother!
And you don’t matter,
you don’t have any matter in the first place.
I can’t speak.
Because I don’t really think I have anything to say.
I feel old in my youth
as if I have already lived way beyond I was supposed to.
I have discovered a bit of joy
at an utter unease with everything perfect
or could have been perfect.
Here I am with the evening breeze
romanticizing the distant chaos again.
I have been feeling weak –
A familiar face,
hanging around with a dictionary definition
ensuring that any sort of hope doesn’t escape
and corrupts me all over again.
Because you are not a bird.
Hues of the autumn
amber, orange, brown
like leaves you fall to the ground.
take away this pen
take away my immortality
I don’t want to be remembered.
I don’t even know what I am.
So why should you?
Hope is that someday it would make sense
Or maybe we’d to learn to accept the senselessness
Hope is that someday we would find order in the chaos
Or maybe we’d learn to deal with the high entropy
What, when, why, how
There’s no ignoring
There’s no escaping
Painful ones, joyful ones,
Interesting ones, awful ones,
We are, in the end, just lines oriented at a random angle –
Converging, intersecting, diverging,
Maybe we make sense from a plane above,
Maybe our experiences together are infinite hues splashed over a vast canvas,
Maybe, maybe there’s a reason
Maybe, maybe there’s an answer
Hope is that someday our beautiful mind would find beauty of his own;
Hope is that till then, he wouldn’t give up hope over fears unknown.