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Strange, how I never saw you

For who you were

And you never saw me

For who I was.

But still.

Your elegant handwriting

Is imprinted in my mind.

Like leaves between the pages

Of a book that was left behind.

But still.

The sounds the keypad made

When I dialled your number

Ring as fresh and familiar

As the rhythm of my heart.

But still.

Your jibes, your taunts,

Your needs, your wants

Get drowned in the memory

Of your tinkling laughter.

Really.

Strange, how time can make

Hell seem beautiful

As if it were viewed through

Rose-tinted glasses.

 

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Heartfelt

Padding my heart with excuses

From the prick of my conscience

Been avoiding this for long

This was equally my fault

As much as it was yours.

Either I have gathered my guts

Or I’m drunk with stupidity

I hate to admit it, but

YES, I was responsible too

For burning down our

Non-existent bridges.

YES, I was the catalyst

Who sped our inevitable fall

Your mistake does not seem

As unforgivable as before

When I compare it with mine.

All those nostalgic days

Tinted with laughter…sigh…

I know we can’t remake our past

But now that it’s all said and done

Will you find it in your heart

To forgive my folly?

 

Deadline

Scattered sheets of paper,

Piled up on the desk in a mess,

Speeding hands working,

Agitated and restless.

The clock is ticking,

Submission is nearing.

Work is increasing,

Time is decreasing.

Quick, fast and rushed,

Thoughts click together,

But alas! It is too late,

Because the deadline is over!

Dedicated to the memory of all the poor souls who are working hard to reach their deadline. Wait, did I just say “memory”???

Inspired by Poetry 101 Rehab.

Foggy Memories

Fog

Fog

Cruel, cold, and frosty was how you were,

When we parted.

I hardly remember anything of that fateful day,

My memories foggy with time.

Unwillingly do I think about you now,

For you hinder my vision,

Suffocating me and blurring my eyes from seeing clearly,

You do more harm than good.

Hazy and misty are my thoughts about you,

Dulled and diminished.

Time is indeed a thief, for it has stolen,

Whatever I had left of you.

For Writing 201: Poetry