muted_musings

You flew away creating a void in me,  A void that was once filled with something nameless.  You didn't know you had stolen it from me,  I'd urge myself to believe I consented you To grab that away so I could always carry  a bleeding scar. I'm sorry if I had ever been a parasite, Lately did I know it was never a symbiosis. To be transparent and to see what was evident is my way, But I do respect your liberty to cover my eyes with lovely veils. I'm sorry but not sorry anymore! Even if you had come back, I might decorate a room in my heart From the ruins of the rupture, Because I honestly don't know How to break yours with this intensity. This vulnerable little creature still roots for you, If you had like to know, I wish. I'll always be thankful for teaching me a new lesson, On how to move on in two separate ways After miles of walking with hands tangled. . But I'd let you know I still wipe the tears and blood That oozes from the healed scar

  It's okay to question your existence. It's okay to be unsure about your choices. It's okay to doubt your intentions. It's okay to revisit the mistakes in the past. It's okay to love silence in the choas. It's okay if you cringe remembering embarrassing moments. It's okay to fail sometimes. It's okay if someone thinks you're stupid. It's okay if some things don't come your way. It's okay if your wishes didn't come true. It's okay to cry under the shower. It's okay to feel guilt and regret. It's okay if you love loneliness. It's okay to yearn for companionship. It's okay to let some people go from your life. It's okay to have dreams that steal your sleep. It's okay to let things go without much thoughts. It's okay to over-think about major decisions. It's okay to feel sick at-times. It's okay if you find yourself as a stranger. It's okay if your time isn't okay right

  Every writer traverses through an eerie tunnel, With walls echoing questions louder and louder, To which they stumble and silence their pens, With the fear of being read, Dreading the reality of being a writer. Many stories remain hidden and untold, Labelled not worthy of this world, Neither better enough to be appreciated, Nor to be even read! Not being read is disheartening, But the horror of being read overrides them all. Once the words are aired to the limitless horizons, It's read by thirsty eyes and may conquer their minds, Beyond borders and languages alike, With no conscious effort of its creator. It sounds wow, but that's scary too. How ever experienced and prolific one be, A writer doubts oneself until the very end, Re-read and re-write over a hundred times, Still unsatisfied with the ultra-polished piece of creativity, With words that might themselves yearn to be read, But still, the fright is real and inescapable. Whatever gets poured onto t

Just hold on for a minute. Calm the blabbering thoughts that's occupying your mind. Ask yourselves this question and ponder on it: "Have you ever been afraid of revealing your real self to anybody at any point of your life? " That did strike a nerve, didn't it? . . . We are judged for the continent we were born to. We are judged for the country we belong to. We are judged for the state we live in For the district and the village therein. We are judged for being a member of 'that' family. We are judged for being a student of 'this' University. We are judged for the place we work all day And for the friends we hangout with on holiday. We are judged for wearing an attire. We are judged for the 'audacity' for writing a satire. We are judged for believing in a God And for the superstitions we mock. . . . The words you swallowed in front of your parents, The weird dreams you never shared to your partner, The tears you hide fr