What you’re made of sometimes,


Es ist nicht das, was man sieht, Dass es ankommt, ist es, war sie sehen.  - Henry David Thoreau

Thoughts Of May

In a world that doesn’t tell you;

Everything you need to know;

In a home that doesn’t kick you out; for not helping out with the dishes;

In a song you like;

In a moment like this;

You can never tell; how good the silence sounds;

How lucky your luck must have been;

In a world out there you still don’t know;

Sitting in a hall, listening to the listener; you’re inspired by the author’s words;

Or you despise him for his opinion; and you opt to create your own.

Isn’t that nice?

She’s not an open book but a crumpled piece of paper, rough on the edges;

Torn and made holes sometimes on the inside. But still a paper.

That’s what she is. A paper.

To write on.

Every thing she sees. Everything she smells, tastes and feels, leave a trace on it.

Sometimes she forcefully tries to erase the uglier…

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