Found a better place to rant >>>

Futile hours, fret thoughts, for a frantic head.

There is a thing that I want to do most earnestly but I rather sit with only its thoughts, I push my desires from it close in a box, inside my body, I can not do it right now, or the very next day, or in coming weeks and hence I wait, I wait tragically for things that can be done only when the time is right, when the sun and stars align perhaps?

I don't write much. Do not write enough.

People have left themselves in me, I'm still carrying them inside me, in forms of agony, abhor and atrocities.

I sit silently in my room, my head is overflowing with muses, I nitpick on them and frame them in so called poetries. I wrote a lot today, I have been writing a lot quite lately.

All I have is a single brain and thousands of poetries to write.

Anger can't be healed, or soothed. It only backs down for sometimes, and when it returns it destructs every flake of built patience, every mote of resistance, every tiny bit of goodness.

Stressed, frustrated and disappointed, my anger is getting a tole on me.

My life doesn't take twists and turns these days, It remains stagnant like a rain water filled pond.

August was hopeful, August was remorseful !

Things are still hard, messy and complicated. My migraine troubles me a little more these days.

A week into the August and there is a tint of coldness in the air, the weather is calm unlike my heart which is weary, it rains in the nights somedays, somedays it only come in dews, a misty moist month, leaves me in wonder a little more.

Nothing I say, proves my existence, it's all that poetry do.