Out of love - 98!

Have you thought about forgiving yourself?
Has that idea struck you?
How odd does that sound?
Have you thought about not punishing yourself for their sins?
Have you imagined yourself
Just breathing, being
Yes, just that and nothing else
Does that sound like bliss?
Yes! It does, because it is
That’s how easy bliss is
What complicates your relationship with bliss?
You? You!
——————
Petals,
Fallen or not,
Are soft, fragrant, fragile
Falling doesn’t change being,
Does it?
————
Who’re you to call Spring magic and Autumn tragic?
————
A cage will always be a cage,
The one which curbs your being,
Exploits your dream,
Don’t fall for its gold,
It’ll make you hollow from whole.
—————
It is in these structures,
you put in your heart & soul,
to create something much more precious than pure gold.
—————

Who watches over,
Us, the ones who perform for Satan
We who must never be named
In front of those who boast about their goodness
The beings whose heart can explode
And mind could blast any minute
But we must always suppress our volcanoes
In the world of those who claim to be nice.
Who watches over us? None!
————

What have the unholy sinful hours
That trickle in at 2 in the night
And choose to do salsa till 4 in the morning
Given you,
Except, doodle ideas on unacknowledged pieces and not sheets of paper
Shapes to your restlessness
And comfort to your loneliness.
What have the unholy sinful hours given you?
—————-
And when you nurse that broken soul,
And not the body, remember it’s
Tiring, consuming, painful,
Just like that shot of anaesthesia,
Before that damn operation.

It’ll be good, dear soul,
You’ll heal, or we’ll have
No option but to deal
With your pieces without zeal.
————————-
You will never know the difference
Between building and creating,
You, the collators of bricks, stones and cement
The ones who are always right, the ones who fear & praise the lord
Yes, you, wouldn't know that difference.

Ask us, the losers,
The ones who dance for Satan
How obnoxiously stunning it is
To create a home without a roof
Where there are imaginary doors of misery,
And windows are made of broken dreams.

Your house is a shoddy spoof,
Of this losers creation,
Sigh.
—————
When they talk about palatial bungalows,
And fancy apartments,
Which they want to call their house
And mind you not home,
Do they even think that this won’t
Bring peace, ease, sleep and smiles?

These bricks and bones, sticks and stones,
Won’t create a home,
It’s not a thing after all,
It’s an emotion, a feeling,
Your share of peace.

But when has sleep and peace won in front of pride? Sigh.