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
2 comments:
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.
When will you dance happy dances, pretty? When will you do what needs to be done?
Cheers,
Blasphemous Aesthete
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