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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