Greying Ink

Cries echo across my hollowed brain An agonizing void of obscure remains A chasm of longing that gapes in vain, A ravaging, rampant, ceaseless pain

Do I sob on how I shatter or hunt in shadows for my being in whole Does it suffice , so dim and tattered Am I walking home or lost on endless stroll?

Is the ache of a past failure supposed to remain? Evergreen? Reminding you of what went wrong? What it could've been? What you could've done? Even when you have walked past it? Tended to and mended a new but similar wound? Been better? Improvised? Manifold times? Do you tend to the old one everytime it aches, or do you wound yourself elsewhere, to distract from the earlier?

Belonging is a lot different than I had thought. It is fitting in, only when you look at the mirror and see everyone else but yourself. Your journal mentions the tiniest detail of the most negligible occurance and not of the crack of your heart you heard in the middle of some conversation. The sourness at the back of your throat, choking the daylight of you while you sit prettily in that dress with a dainty little bag. Your knees and ankles giving away while you walk a lil more so as to avoid avoidance. Or maybe it is just me. Am i supposed to live, feeling alienated, distraught and helpless? Till the sand clock drains?

A bright yellow wallflower, creeping up the grime walls of ancient city ruins. Would you not look at it? Would you not smile at the thoughts of the roots gushing from through the bricks and stone? Would you not enframe its struggle and take pride in its bloom?

And then, on days with the thunder and the wind, I might feel a little more aloof, a little more lost, a little more sore and numb in your presence than otherwise. But, oh my love, will I still crawl into your arms looking for everything bright that my own esse fails to provide for me. For you, my love, are both the cave I scramble in to breathe out of and the light at the end of the transversal spiral in the heart of the planet.