Left Out

"I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead
And all but he departed!”


Thomas Moore (Irish Poet , 1779-1852)

Walking on Eggs

wut's with anxiety? it spreads and violates like a poisonous mist.
you're caught unaware
then POOF!
it becomes rage.

a tempest, a flurry of madness
the air is filled with heaviness and knives are raining on everyone
slowly, gradually
it dissipates,
that poisonous mist.

leaving everything and everyone in shambles,
closed doors and stony stares
the calm is a sham
the air is still oppressive
you never know when it'll explode.

Still Untitled

How do you cry silently?
No sound at all
A cry so deep, it needs to be hidden
Crying like this,
Do you wonder
About the pain that caused it?
Anger is pain too right?
A mounting anger; It, too, runs deep
But why hide this?
Ah, there must be love behind it
Yes, behind it.
Love is powerful, yes.
So powerful, it creates it's own tempest
It lets the tempest rage on
Until love is truly behind it all.
After the tempest, does love step forward?
Ah no, love creates another spawn
regret
Love is powerful, yes.
But it's always behind
The rage and regret it creates -
Insignificant and forgotten.

Something from Odd Thomas

from my notes :)

July 14, 2010
9:58 am

It's the weariness from futility and disillusionment of purpose.

The weariness that came from futility
The purpose and commitments that means responsibility
The weariness from reflection -
It all disappears with a simple life,
little pleasures, routine and small jobs.

not a writer. sad.

I don't think I'll ever be a writer.
It's a job, right? A job has deadlines. And what I write, it's not restricted to deadlines. It shouldn't be. It will wither and die if there is a 'date-and/or-time-to-finish' set to it.

Anyhoo, I love the idea of a blog.
However, I think I've been ignoring it for months now.
I just can't seem to write.
Is it a block maybe? There are so many things to write about but for some reason, I can't put it into words. I'm not in a haste to write about anything, but, I feel like a lot of note-worthy things are being missed.
Maybe I should've attempted to write about them now. But I wouldn't be able to give them justice if I do it at this point.

So, they'll just have to wait?

Nah, life starts anew everytime and so would my notes.