• wisteria_ 22w

    Just an inconsistent attempt at writing.

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    Somewhere down the half done night,
    Looking at images of sky on the phone,
    With my skyless days and nights,
    There aren't many words to wither off my tongue.
    To write is an anomaly now,
    To the intent of piling up till it spills,
    In headaches and upset gut,
    It spills in pangs of silence.
    Happiness is as temporary a feeling,
    As having done some work for the day.
    Lately, I have started singing out loud,
    It makes me feel more alive.
    Maybe this something, that i started,
    As a half burnt half baked poem,
    Might just end up being another conversation,
    I ain't a poet, I don't have the life in me to be one.
    Sadness requires a lot of courage these days.
    I miss trees as usual, the leaves, the calm,
    my eyes lurk out of the windows,
    In boring lectures, dreaming of leaves singing.
    The love that settles slowly, settles deep,
    And I know not of a lot of other reasons to smile.
    It also settles like a fear, of change,
    Of doom, of burning down everything flammable,
    Before it catches fire, itself.
    But love is tranquil in the days I don't think,
    It hugs me like I have something to hold onto.
    I wish to tell some people,
    How they mean the world to me.
    Midst the empty rolling chair,
    And a presentation waiting for me,
    Maybe I will have enough memories,
    To sustain myself, to keep myself warm.