Friday, September 5, 2014


To my heart,

Rot, Rot, Rot bloody hell
I will give you my cold warmth, die with it.

The body you reside in.

Recently, while having a conversation with some friends who sought to have a context about any piece of writing, (my writing too) it sort of made me think if by adhering to their notion, I shall be doing justice to myself or my reader. And I could not reach a conclusion.
On one hand I want to give my reader the liberty to jump into the sea of his own thoughts, on the other, I want someone to see through inside me too.

The numbers, these titles (FourThreeTwoOne) are reflecting a series, a pattern of the changing lanes I'm walking by. I do not quite want anyone to be judgemental because that I think is precisely the problem with contexts, past stories and truths.  
Writing is close to my heart, maybe closer than anything else but people are muses, emotions are the tender lines which I can see myself crisscrossing over. I can not help but printing them on paper. It's one favouritism I'm showering upon myself.

Lastly, in my personal opinion, poetry is a thing only meant to be appreciated.


Blasphemous Aesthete said...

Poetry is an instrument. So, I read the one, two, three in an independent order. Only when they will be in one place - in one sight - will I find patterns to them (or, when you say that there are).

So, get well :)

Blasphemous Aesthete

GoldFish said...

Your writing is honest. So are you. Your friend is a tad cynical. Forgive her. :)