Hey guys it's not the poetry nor a story it's something I felt and I thing each one of you will go through it. That is confusing it could be between two people or your future ..it can be anything... Sometimes it feels like you are totally lost and it's hard to find a way and ..you just start crawling for help but nobody response you.. Sometimes it feels like this is the end and you are going to fall but you stand up again and again.. sometimes it feels he is best for you within one second that same person feels like a stranger..why we crawl for that person who never valued us..why??? Why there is sadness in every happiness? Why there is struggle in every success? Why a sad story for a good ending? Why??
There're just too many words, filling up even the tiniest bit of space left in me. I can't breathe, sometimes, for the load of emotions cramped upon me is titanic. My crumbling sigh remains a mystery; you look at me, as if waiting to hear me out, but the irony is I can't really speak.
I'm full of letters, weaved into a thousand words, wobbling still with zillions of thoughts. Yet there's a part in me that says "That is all.. Yours faithfully...". I wonder how much of an end, that really is. I still feel the frangible touch of your finger tips wanting to pour out even the remaining ounces of your emotions, all upon me. But you put down your quill and fold my frame into an envelope to seal.
I've fulfilled my purpose today, for the hundreds of times I've been stacked within large boxes, with so many like me, I'm worn out and out of shape. But I made it here, to my destination, that's in real, more like yours. I feel at an advantage, to be touched by the soft fingers of the woman you love but can't reach, of the mother who yearns to bless you but you can't come to, to the old friend with whom you grew up with, but haven't met now for ages.
I'm that old piece of junk you store within the deepest chambers of your closet, whose key is like a secret you'd guard even upon your own life. I'm also the prestigious piece that awards you with acclamation and zeal, that your mother shows off more than those dazzling medals hung on the concrete walls. Yet I'm scared I'll only be torn and disposed off someday, when you'll grow mundane enough with the so called normale, that you might cease to reminisce; the memories that hold you back from smiling even on the merriest of days, or those that adorn the lovely curve of your lips, even when you feel down someday.
I hope I'll still be safe within your old brown closet; I'll still breathe in those emotions you've shunned down, yet even in the most silent of days, you'll pull down those covers you've hid me beneath and re-read me once, for some long day, I'll be the only remaining route you can take to trace back the love of those long lost memories.
~autobiography of an old letter (just tried) __________________________________________________ I feel a block coming my way, still I wanted to see how far it's still .. I couldn't read back what I wrote :| it's too bad ik! #ceesreposts@mirakee@writersnetwork@writersbay#aubic