All the memories down the lane,
Take me home, but now they cause me pain.

My self-made prison, a place of lies,
Where I hear the clock strike at peculiar times.

Reverberating on the window panes each day,
The demons in my head never go away.

Filled with secrets and lies that kill,
My prison is a slow poison that makes me ill.

Longing for the warmth on winter nights,
A feeling cherished, a memory that delights.

But now the walls are plain and white,
A broken canvas of lies, a memory that's lost its light.

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I vividly remember the moment I realised,
how much I cherished my solitude.
Although I might be around the cheery smiles,
Yet I chose to write about the wilting flower
In the sea of others.

The tingling chills down my spine,
And amongst the world of thoughts.
I see behind the stain,
Days look like light and nights were about fairytales.

Sometimes on the darkest of days,
I know for a fact
The snow will fall and the regrets will circle.
Was that even the biggest surprise on my face?

The world appeared to be just.

Sorrows chased our cars,
and I was left counting the stars
Believing there was always time for happiness.
I let myself disguise the pain into stories,
Stories, that I fail to understand
Or never wanted to.

As life goes by,
I stopped being that child.
The one dreaming of glimmers and sunshine,
I understand that sometimes the stars just don't align.
That's when i realise,
Life is never a fairytale.

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i don't know?

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yq, a home.

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home.

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memories laced in every inch of your body
that makes you go all dark and bright
blacking out on the dark nights
when the white page seems unfinished
without the black stain of pain and suffering.
and, thriving to the fullest on bright days
letting the sound of rain have your adrenaline pumping
with your breath all taken away,
"life's magical"

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The weight of memories
have got me twisted and turned on the cold side of pillow which is now rather a hospital bed,
its like chaos wants itself to be rebirthed, to live and feed again

they say humans leave marks on us often like scars
i believe wounds are not that easy to be killed and buried.

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....— % &.....— % &

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my ink, dried.

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little things.

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