Scribble

I feel bored, I feel sad, do I feel happiness? I am not sure about that. I know one thing that I feel numb when I exactly feel nothing at all. What is this nothingness I am pushing myself into? How could nothing be something? I really don't know that. For me this nothingness, this feeling of numbness is infinite...  It sounds like I'm grappling with a complex mix of emotions, ranging from boredom and sadness to a pervasive sense of numbness.  All of these are due to valid emotional experiences,  Sometimes I ask myself a question whether happiness exists amidst this sea of emotions, especially when numbness seems to dominate. This nothingness can be likened to a void, a space where emotions are muted or nonexistent. It's a place of emotional inertia, where the absence of feeling becomes its own overwhelming sensation. While it may seem paradoxical, this nothingness is indeed something—a tangible manifestation of emotional disconnection and internal struggle.  ...

She is like the moon so close yet so far.  Her spirit, a canvas of colors so bright, Her innocence makes me feel alive.  Her blabbers echoing through the silence. Let them ring, those delightful sounds.  She is entering through the windows of my heart,  Which were once torn apart and now closed. With every  gentle whispers, she finds her way,  Each laugh, a key, unlocking the door,  With every smile, I need her more. What I feel, a stirring deep inside, Is it real, or just a passing tide? With every heartbeat, I'm drawn near, Her presence filling up the void of my heart.  In the quiet glow of the moon's  light,  I pen these words, my feelings to write. Let this poem be the gentle start,  For in every line, and every verse, My love for you, I openly converse.

Haven’t wrote anything for while.  Haven’t walked along the aisle.  Blank pages and thoughts adrift. Pen in hand, I'll find the rhythm  and pour out my heart's unrest.  Lost in the words, my poetic soul wanders Longing for this silence to be broken  Weaving each verse with ink. In the twilight of thoughts and verses Each metaphor is a path, a journey Where imagination becomes the reality  And reality a lie to fade way.  Haven’t wrote anything for a while, Ink spills as thoughts compile,  Walking down that writer's aisle. Lost yet found, my poetic soul dances   through the labyrinth of words.  Forever seeking, forever free. 

The winds of time, relentless and bold,  Swept through , icy and cold.  The rose once vibrant began to fade,  Its colors now ghosts in the evening shade. The rose was but a ghost once filled with life. Beneath the crimson splendor  and fragrance so sweet,  The thorns tell a story of deceit.  In the stillness of dark it softly sighs Though its time was brief   in death it's essence endures For every rose that graces time  Leaves behind a silent rhyme.