Monthly Archives: February 2017

Trysts with betrayal..

Dreams fade away..

Repressed beneath the cocaine like pain..

Pain from the trysts with betrayal..

Lines of fate branched into multiple stinging paths..

Which one would you choose?


When Dreams have faded.. path has been fenced with loneliness..

Friends you once thought forever…

Are waiting to loose you..

Ohh..The ways love’s betrayal swaddles thee…

Words once muttered in earnest…

Were only junctions in the web of distrust..


Camouflage muttered, instincts altered…

Only to save their day trampling on thy sorrows..

Foreboding thee to feel..

Negligence of thy states of being..

As though thee was a bothersome morsel loitering in  the corners of their presence..

They make you scream inwards… these friends..

I hope thy path never crosses with one of them..

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Each one has a story to tell…

Each one has a story to tell… Aaah, such an unremarkable and a predictable beginning to a write up, ain’t it? But you see, its true even the simplest lives have innumerable of ways of depicting themselves. The simplest lives, the most monotonous one..the most monochromatic one could have elements that in conjuncture develop into a phenomena that can be more a complicated one . Or, maybe its perception is so ordinary that we beings who are awake only in a way would hardly notice.

Every story has an ache attached to it. Each story- a contracting and expanding plane, plane of time and memory.

Such pictures painted in red and maroon, highlights of paleness, violence lingering, dominating, a net of undesirable desires, a multitude of rare fortitude and neglected battles, ignored bruises. Hardly an ache without beauty of such sullen pain, beauty of hopeful eyes, nurtured heart, innocence braving, a survival of beauty through it all…

Some find a good ear, an attentive mind to listen, some crawl neglected in the caves of their own loneliness. Story teller, writers, weavers who knit stories for the keen eyed, mild-hearted, Imaginative minded beings. Aren’t they all, aren’t all the beings a little desperate to tell their story? Some tell yours, some tell their own.. yet a part of them explained through it, strewn across the pages, wandering with palms outstretched…leaning to draw you in..embezzling you in to feel them, feel their life…fight the wars they do -with them… see them in those words, in those colors..

The people in their stories.. have a epilogue and preface of their own.. might you heed their emoting eyes, actions and words.. might another story be told about them… For none deserves to disappear without a mark..

Each one hopes for thy own story to be heard… even the observer, the detached objective being, wants to reach you… if only you as a human could promise to hear him… accept him… fear not what you know not… simply feel as you must..

Hope the stories are heard.. hope the aches subside.. hope thy own.. as my own words, thy friends as my friend’s stories reaches thee.. and you listen.. listen with eyes,mind and heart.


Categories: life | 4 Comments

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