Feelings that we hide! by August Nexus (best books to read all time TXT) 📕

Once I knew a girl

Once I knew a girl with a shrill voice
She was tall and pretty like the origami puppets
She had matchstick hands and plastic hair.
She kept her secrets deep inside herself
Not letting the emotions show on her paper face
One day I heard she swallowed some pills
and they said she took her own life
but I know this was no suicide
she died of a broken heart which she later threw in the waste paper basket
the poems she wrote, I have read, had a longing for a calm and quite death
so now she sleeps and here I cry
when I think of her my lips go dry.

The famous pop singer whose songs I listen to every night
She looks so happy but she is sad inside
I have seen on her fame the gloom which lingers
She is always pointing at others with her thin fingers
I know for sure she soon will die
And they will say she died of marijuana hid underneath her pillow
But I know she is suffering a lot
And one day she will die of a heart rot.
But I just listen to her songs loud
So as to forget her face below the shroud.

That American actress whom I lived once
She is dating a guy who is not good
I can say he will ditch her soon
And I know that she knows it too
But still she let him kiss her on the cheek
Because looking at her face makes her knees go weak.
There are sleeping pills in the pocket of her jeans
And one day she will die of poisoning.
Each one of us Know the truths of the lies
But still we wait for hopes to die
So that we can give blame and point fingers above
And kill ourselves after swearing at heavens. 

Thought spirals

  The doodles on the edges of my notes

or The butts of the cigarettes I never smoked
or Your fingernails which are too fragile
or Those lip balms which you rarely apply
are mostly the things I think about
I have no thoughts on intricacies of life
neither Am I concerned with your brother's to be wife

I think of people who had fame and
I think of ones who died too young
some shot themselves, some poisoned, and some hung
Musicians, writers, actors and singers of rock punk
why 'Cobain' shot himself on the chin?
'cause he wasn't able to mute his inner din.
'Monroe', you say, died young
I never heard the songs she may have sung
but I do know why she killed herself
Last resort's Death, when you can't fight the demons of your inner self.
Woolf drowned herself, just to escape
what became a demon was once her own consciousness

And I think about the singer whose songs I love
and I know that she will also die pretty young
Don't know how's she going to do it but
Drug Overdose may be one of her ways.

The spirals that I draw may look like a pattern
but they are my thoughts going haywire
Chaos being their only design.

Afternoons

 

What are the mornings for?

To sleep enough so that you look sane.

 

What are the nights for then?

Tonot sleep and think of things,

to battle with all the memories.

Nights are for
tearless weeping and silent screams.

 

What are the evenings for?
for tea cups and long strolls.
To be with the ones you love,
to be true to yourself and her.
To see her and be happiest ever.

 

What then are the long afternoons left with?

Afternoons are
to think and think
and to float in gloom
and then at last bleed on paper.

 

Afternoons are also for collecting yourself
And for collecting all the things left behind.

But mostly my afternoons are spent
in thinking about her
and waiting for the evening.
So we can meet
and be happy together.

Love and Pain

So here we are in the midst of this sea

Unnavigable and difficult to swim through
But you won’t drown
Unless you succumb to internal pain

On some of the nights
You have your gashes turn to wounds
and profusely they bleed
the invisible blood till eternity.

It’s like the long summer afternoons, this pain
You sit in your room full of
Hot air, warm misery, and liquid sadness
They flow around you, trying to drown you.

Sink, Sink, Sink deeper in pain
Float deep down and feel it again
The first tears you shed for a broken heart
Or those sleepless nights which made you smart.

Remember those evenings
When you kept staring at the setting sun
And darkness fell all around you
While you sat considering things to shun.

No sun is not romantic, it’s a ball of fire
No nor the moon can arouse you, it’s itself a piece of rock
But still they both love the earth
And hence they keep her away, just to save her from a tragic end.

So is that what we all do
Keeping the ones we love, away
Keeping our black shadows
from darkening their lives.

Of all the legendary stories
I hate Romeo and Juliet’s the most
A relationship no more than
Of a parasite and a host.

She says you should love yourself
And I try my best not to make her sad
But once again she looks at my face
Sensing my sadness, before falling in love again.

Be Happy, stay cool they say
While I try hard to keep emotions at bay
Sometimes I smile just to betray
As my true ones are only hers to know. 

Iam lilac in colour

And black is my real shade
And she knows how it’s in my head
And m grateful for not being dead
Yet!

Lullaby

 

To everyone who slept tonight
I ask thee.
Why am I up while you sleep?
What is this magic, what sorcery?
some days it makes you fall for it,
but on some nights, it’s nowhere to be seen.

Through the door of my room
I see a piece of sky,
broken like glass, kinda dry.

So blue almost black, makes my eyes sigh.
No moon today, she too must have slept,
I am the only one left.

My pen resists but still I write
my head works faster then my hands can write.
I write 'bout love and tales of pain
She says, You write so well, even on topics mundane.

But the question is what is mundane?
and what is normal to a man insane?
All my memories are coming back
a this, and that, and the pieces I lack.

My verses may make you go & hide
or get your brain cells run fast and collide
but can’t wipe the truth
nor your flowing eyes.

Drop by drop I colour these lines
filling my cracks with shades of blue.

And as the night bids goodbye
morning birds put me to sleep, singing a lullaby.

Opposites are alike.

I draw on ruled sheets
same ones on which I write
cutting art pieces into sections
and let them find their own spaces in confines
like I did
for all these years
stuck in a box cage
with open doors
but clipped wings.
You can't fly
when there's no sky
above my head I saw
voids so dark that
they left me awestruck
how they were as beautiful as
the insides of my head
haunting lovely
desperate places
sweet bitter
cold and warm at once.
Beautiful like the
ugly ducks
lit like hell
burning like heavens
alive like pages
and dead like trees.

Can't bid adieu

 That song I always skip
Those melodies which I always sing
The love I always crave for
The glasses which I don’t wear anymore
The books I never read
The purpose which I never get
Those old clothes which don’t fit anymore
Those hands which I can hold no more
An ode and song to all those sobs
A goodbye to the comfort that comes from crying
A belief in myself which is once again broke
It is me