We’re all stories In The End.

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Am I your first page?

Am I reaching out to you?

Are you reading me? Will you turn the page?

Will you hold me close to you?

Will you cradle me in your lap?

Or

Will you leave me?

Read me like I’m not yours?

Will you ?

Will you leave the world to be with me?

Do the words inscribed on me,

Bring you closer to me?

Will you read me?

Will you gasp your breathe to turn to the next chapter?

Will you continue?

I’m reaching out to you.

My pages are torn,

Mistreated by the others,

I’m pale, yellow.

Some say,

That’s what attracts the ‘writers’

Are you one of those?

Will you pick me up?

From the library of all others,

Will my story be yours?

Will you treasure me?

I promise to be there,

Silently,

I promise to sit in your shelf,

Creep into your mind,

To turn back to me,

When you’re alone.

I’ll teach you, silently.

You love me, silently.

After all,

We’re all stories in the end.

Can I be your last page?

Flimsy Fear

The space in between is really little.

Between the river bank and the mud that connects to the water line,

between the mascara and the eyelash.

But the difference is a little too much, then how can you tell?

There was a terrible fear of failing, now there’s a terrible fear of being wrong altogether!

Changing paths, letting go.

How can you tell?

“Smiling but we’re close to tears, even after all these years.”

Time waits for none. So I figured. The days fly, the clock ticks , the calender shows different dates.

Fear, just fear.

The guilt of not trying to hard, of giving up too early. Choking fear of death and of an uncertain world. 

Everything remains undone and incomplete. Pages left unwritten and things unlearnt. Flashes of incidences, that make you cry.

Fear, just fear.

A  convincing voice inside my head tells me its another year, another beginning and I mock.

New beginnings come with freshness of things not with the dates changing.

Deadlines, egos, pride, image.

There’s no happiness, no sadness, no anger, no excitement.

Numb fear, just fear.

The keyboard lies untouched, and notebooks lie unwritten and slowly passion begins to die all at once.

Try!

But what? To be perfect or to be average. Keep deciding! The world’s far ahead, doing much better.

A reverse gear into time of stupidity!

This or that.

Me or you?

Science or commerce?

English or Math?

Him or him?

Right or wrong?

 It’s back again.

Fear, just fear. 

“There comes a time when every bird has to fly
At some point every rose has to die”

 

Let’s Get To Work! Let’s Write!

Pick up a pen my love,

If you’re up for some fancy writing,

Let the fountain pen flow it’s way down the hand made paper.

The happiness is something to savor 

A fat old yellow paged book,

It’ll get you to a hook.

Ah, the longing of being in another era.

Read slowly, capture moments of every race,

Turn the pages, solve the mystery ! You must find a trace.

Let’s get to work.

Put on your glasses that make you look so fine.

Grab your over coats , who cares what is the time?

Walk around and embrace the midnight beauty 

 Let go of all the ambiguity! 

Dusk or dawn maybe? 

Let’s get to work.

Spray paints here and there.

Look, watch, observe.

Feel.

All you can!

Fill yourself with knowledge and observance.

Rejoice it and it shall make all the sense! 

Let’s get to work.

When you’re just too happy and overjoyed.

When the world just doesn’t get any better,

When you’re cold and you need a sweater.

When you’re depressed,

When you’re fatigue and life’s a complete mess.

Get to work.

Pick up a pen.

Ball, gel, black, blue.

Pencils  too.

A spiral diary, 

A keyboard fiery!

 

Write. Write for the immortality of words.

Write for the joy is splendid.

Forget the world, this joy is it.