I don’t write of felicity, of peace, and hope, and love.

Nothing inspires me.

Nothing excites me.

I write of confusion, of frustration, of anger, and pain.

Things hurt me.

Things slip through my hand, left me in vain.

I don’t write of the summer’s heat, the cool sea breeze and its therapeutic smell that remedies her of her pain and sadness, and reminds her of hope, her future, and her dreams.

But I write about the raging sea, the thundering sound of cruelty, and its horror that devour one and left him in despond.

I don’t write of picturesque mountains, of butterflies, and rainbows, and the rivers that seems to flow infinitely.

I write about the rain tapping on one’s blood stained on his wrist, open wounds, and cuts.

I don’t write of melodies, the symphonies, and lullabies of blues and love…

I write about the reality of broken heart and aches, and hunger, and thirst of love.


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