Friday, November 15, 2013


You are at age when nothing holds you,
Any slight contact with the world bruises you
You write
 but it's not quite writing
More of strange words disconnected from each other
Each word sitting alone
Unable to reach out 
and form a sentence.
There is too much thrashing and clawing
 for things that are too early for you to grasp on to.
And hope and belief seems fraudulent words
Your young heart is wary of them already,
Suspicious, watchful and stays away.
You dread the cold immense nights stretched out infront of you,
with daytime so far away
You still haven't gotten used to loneliness
Not yet.
But there are certain consolations, you tell yourself
Soaking in the warm winter sun with the book
 you were supposed to save up for the dreary days of December.
 And walks, long solitary aimless walks
 in which you end up dreaming out loud to yourself.
But what you really have
you don't know yet.
And that partly makes up
For what you can no longer call your own.

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