Within.

Stars and diamond,

Gold and silver; Bangles and earrings.

Oh, you beautiful beings.

In this dark I see,

Torched sonnets, words in scripted on walls and ceilings.

Beautiful phrases, good grammar.

Does this get better?

I want to read, every bit of this place. Enclosed yet open, heaven in a tunnel.

Shall I die here?

A husky voice!

Ah, treasured secrets but narrow visions.

This is love, this is lust.

I lust those lips, from which these words emerge.

Those eyes, who do you seek?

So much glamour. How words resonate in you!

Not every script is made for thy land.

Lie down with me, on the sand.

Fill every bit of this paper. With art, with music, with words!

Words that will awaken you, the ones that shall touch you.

Oh, his hand.

Sculpted with the colour of Adam, reflecting masculinity.

Not fair and fragile like hers.

Not painted, not jewelled. Just perfected.

He would hold the fountain pen, while she would hide in her den.

Her magic, his words.

The ones that read her curves.

Just above her belt, between the t-shirt; that little corner of her waist that peeped.

He had lusted her, but he loved words.

Now he loved her and lusted words.

His mysteries were now a maze.

Her beauty now his craze.

 

 

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So far from Innocent – Neurotic Writer’s Diary – Page 4

A few seconds turn into minutes, hours; gradually into days and months. Often we wait, for someone, something in all those moments that make life. We wait.

Sleeping every night with little dreams, hopes and rules for the next day to come and sometimes not sleeping at all. Just a cup of coffee, a pen to write and memories to recall or decisions to make. Tasks of the material world divert our hearts and souls from things we would like to keep close… They come back. Often.

To think of an end of an era is scary.

Maybe because we’re scared we’ll never live the past again. Nights of despair , lost thoughts and tears and yes, nights of good writing!

The beginning of the night is scary, the end painful! Like a mother holding her child to her bosom and giving it in the hands of a stranger.

When did I grow old?

How and why did I agree to give up my innocence? When did the sparkle in our eyes go away? Since when have we become selfish manipulative beings?

The desperation to be makes us crazy. And in the craziness we forget.

To spend nights being lost, engrossed in ourselves.

In making decisions for time is man made and so is society.

Grow up as you. Passion often takes away innocence

But living in the past only gives you tears of remembrance.