I am asking myself some questions,
Waiting for the answers to come.
But I won’t answer,
I just shrug in return.
Why is it so typical to make myself
open up even in front of me?
Why is it so that I feel agitated
whenever I seek answers from me?
I am still waiting for the answers,
But they won’t come out of me.
I am still waiting for them,
Waiting for myself to blurt them out.
The plan has failed, I think-
of making conversations,
while caressing our poetic muscles.
It has been so long,
that a post has been made here.
The conversations have come,
to an abrupt end.
It doesn’t feel right,
writing even now all alone.
Come on let’s be poetic,
that was the funda.
So come and converse,
with your poems.
Add some poetic verses,
to this scorched bloggy land.
Inside the meaning of the soul ,
young lovers vanish,
Just the thought of words ,
the old ones speak,
Under a cloudless sky of discord the poets cry,
On the cold mountain of death the ,
waves speak,
our imagination of the dreamers weep
In the ground of our imagination ,
the dreamers escape,
A mountain top at six am
Overlooking a river
Three thousand feet below
Dangling feet
Over the ledge
Breathing deep just to know
Sharp rocks
Settling on skin
Never could feel more alive
In an instant
Head first
Could take the last dive
Instead I stand
Firmly on the ground
Knowing that I'll be alright
Walking away
Just at dusk…
Itch (EP) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
itch I have its to big to scratch
I try to write , but cannot match
the writers here are very good
if given the chance write I would
Portia’s style is second to none
HowAnxiouses posts are , my number one
one of these days this itch you see
will turn into more , then a writer I’ll be
When you deny yourself
What your soul really really wants
Oh you are in trouble!
First there will be the little itch
Then the medium one
And finally the unbearable itch!
Scratch all you want
But if you don’t give your soul
What she wants
She isn’t going to let up
