Sunday, May 4, 2014

Ink that flows

Maybe I don’t need anything but a pen and ink bottles
so I write letters and keep on writing them
until they start flying on their own
and reach to all the hidden cornerstones
and all the concealed shabby shelters
to people who want to know the things
which keep the world alive
and the things which kept them away
from saying what that had to be said
and the things which could have changed
the course of lives and the summers
because people can’t see things till
they walk the bridges themselves
and they don’t trust the hearts till
their stupid minds sleep deep in the night
and these crazy people fear all the good things
to be monsters behind faces flashing their
giant, hideous shadows when even children know
that monsters under the bed can be happy creatures
So now when they get older and
receive the letters, they finally sit by the windows
and think about it and keep on thinking
until they can get up and go about doing
the things, the same things that had to be done
and the things which could made lives
more fluffy and with more lights on
when girls dance like pretty ballerinas and boys
sit back in awe and clap like fools


dearmia said...

One sees around what is within, and then you too do it again and then again, pretending it to be external of you. May be like me.

Words which meant nothing to you, I was dwelling on them.

Blasphemous Aesthete said...

When will you dance happy dances, pretty? When will you do what needs to be done?

Blasphemous Aesthete