Collecting the raw emotions,
With words I form these lines,
After all, emotions are kept alive
Only in poems where I live!
Gathered genuine feelings, like those morning dew,
Scorched, evaporate, called a triviality!
Being stamped out I have no clue,
As how to stay with obligations in reality!
Instincts of survival abandon art,
As every time I near it.
Beyond I’m now considered dead,
For what I shed, isn’t taken to be worthful!
Play those violins of pain,
As my eyes let its dried tears to drain,
The music is now a lament,
The lonely flute causes in… a deep dent!
Is life all about flawed beauties?
Is it a practice to lose merries?
Is it to watch flowers wither,
In the stinging cold,
Beneath the stars that shimmer?
For to imagine in agony is the only better!