Friday, 20 January 2017


Stories in books -
if you were to tell them,
would they be the same
as you read them,
as they were written?

Stories lived -
if you were to write them,
would they be the same
as they were lived,
as they were told?

Stories untold -
if you were to find them,
would you write them
as narrated,
as you observed?

Stories told, untold -
they have a life
of their own
no one can depict
exactly the way they are.

Story tellers
Story writers
have a way with words
that come from within
themselves - their own story.

since that day

You know,
since that day -
the day we shouted at each other -
I've felt misunderstood,
All those years
seem wasted,
keepin' on
with this hope -
that everything will be fine,
we'll all grow up
into fine individuals.
We've grown -
we have -
only to love our own selves,
to take care
of our own needs.
Our selfish dreams!
Oh yes!
with each passing year,
we grow apart.
I bid halfheartedly.
There's no losing
what never was ours (combined).
I've accepted
the brewing hatred,
The eyes -
they say it all.
Our lips -
sealed -
like our bodies were frozen.
I've often felt
the cold-ness of yours.
My heart shudders.
My strength waning,
I choose to stay warm.
Winter is faithfully harsh.
I cannot tell
if I'll be blessed
with another warm season.
I might as well enjoy
the winter's moment.