Behind my eyes, beneath the lid,
shadows of past raising again.
As years of rust soften the marks,
a gusty wind shall revive them all.
Was it just a face of pleasure or
had i been only waiting for more.
I kept running and reasoned it well
until someday i ran out of grounds.
Opened in due course, doors of
wisdom
but, price of silence held me
grounded.
My past is just a bunch of thoughts
which hold me in line with who i am.
For whom i wrote the words of dreams
isn’t more often the one who reads.
Then i may tear some part of it
pretend to forget there was a dream.
Then one day when i began to fly
i found this sucking isn’t about
past
Its just a choice of filling the bag
i always can with a lazy thought.
And keep on whining instead of
living.
