The wise quill.

I pen down my sorrows,
which dwell amidst the burrows,
Slowly and keenly, do I move the quill,
a little ink on the paper does it spill,
And a tale of my life I try to stitch,
but my quill, every time, would glitch,
I enquire, "What's the matter?"
It hesitates, and states, " 'tis the fetter",
Bewildered, I stare at it,
And like a whisper, a secret it'd utter,
"Thy heart thou tryest to put on this sheet;
Hath this act already not left thou with defeat?
A promise thou shalt make to me,
Guard thy heart, or this heart wilt flee,
The fetter shalt protect it,
Off it goes and thou shalt regret it.",
An instant it took to ingest the truth,
better the bitter now, than later to ruth it,
Taken aback, but also bewitched,
I jotted the wisdom of quill,
and drank the rum of my afflict.

Regrets.

I'd discovered myself at the verge of a cliff, at a height unfathomable for a sapien. Never had I found myself frightened of something as much as I was now. I bowed my head down, to peer into that abyss where I'd fall if I let go of that rope of hope akin to a strand of hair. I could see a bleak vision of light , with clouds as a periphery. Looking down made my heart skip a beat. I endeavoured to back off. But I couldn't, as my feet were amidst the fetters. These shackles were put onto my feet with a promise that they would guarantee my glory. But they did not. Those fetters were mere expectations. Yes, they were clots of my own blood around my feet to ensure something, that was only destiny's right to decide. Destiny, they said was a kind of wind that brings you honour as a reward if you outdo it. Or it'll bring you shame if it vanquishes you. And then destiny hit me with a blow, which I survived. The shackles aided in my surveillance. Everyone celebrated my victory and so did I, and later did I realize that it wasn't the victory but a lost battle. A battle that brought darkness into my life. That glory, those shackles wished for, would've only been awarded to me if I'd allowed the fate to thrash me. I still don't know what was down that cliff and I'll remorse it throughout my life. Not breaking the shackles and jumping off that cliff will be my biggest regret.

Demons.

Fidgeting, sitting on that black leather couch, I was gazing at the wall for two hours now. In the growing silence, I could hear the tick tock of the large antique clock from the corridor which was a call from hell. I had been biding my time until I was possessed by that curse with no escape again, that occupied my soul every night. The clock struck 3. The window parallel to me was showing the nightmarish scenery outside like some horror movie on television's screen. The darkness had concealed all the stars as if a black sheet was placed over tiny holes that were the only way to let the rays of light into a cave. It was cognate with a beautiful witch's cloak to camouflage all the glitters she was wearing and all one was left to witness was her dark side. I could feel something scorching my heart, singeing it. They were back. Yes, the demons were back, crawling over my skin, into my heart, piercing it, breaking it down into pieces. It felt like they were infecting my veins with venom, and I had no hunch of how to get the venom in there out, that was tormenting me and killing me. They stung me with those loud voices, like a honey bee would sting. "Hush, hush, shoo" but they won't go away. Sometimes they would play a flashback to me of all those nights, when I was alone, on those empty walls, and sometimes they talked in the same voices of the people who betrayed me and left me amidst the alley of nothingness. I couldn't take that savagery. Those brutal monsters would stop once in a while when they would find me on the verge of death. As I felt the venom reaching my heart, the searing pain grew, withering me, and I panicked, "What do I do? How do I heal myself?" I asked myself. I ran towards the drawer to find a pill to ease it up, to find a razor that would equalize the pain by leaving those filthy scars on my wrists, "No, no where do I go?" A cigarette might help. "Light it up, light it up" but all in vain. "GO AWAY, GO AWAY, LEAVE ME ALONE", but no, they found their pleasure in torturing me. A drink, Yes, A drink will surely help, some beer, "Where did I put it? Oh where did I put it, God." I might just go to that guy next door who offered me drugs that day. "Open the door, open up", no one opens the door. It was a folly to think someone will help me out at this hour of night. I'm left to suffer this misery on my own. The appalling pain is slowly increasing, invading my heart, conquering my realm, blackening my blood, killing my soul, "SAVE ME", :SAVE ME", but no one's here to hear me out. And once again, it's just me left here to help myself out from those monsters dwelling in there, up in my head. Because it has always been me and nobody else. Not the cigarettes, not the booze, just me and my no-good-for-something existence that is like a fly in a meadow, negligible.

One summer evening.

She sits on the grass of the lawn with a cup of cold coffee in her hand on a cloudy evening of summer. She's thinking of something, not sure what it is. Because she's continuously gazing at the wide sky above, lost in fathoming the height of the passing clouds, noticing how the moon is bleak that will just be brighter in no time. And she feels a tear rolling down her face that reminiscences those beautiful memories she collected in that jar, which is enclosed in a cage, her heart.

Just one month back, how things were different, how there were tears of joy in her eyes. The beautiful evening when they were together for that little span of time which seemed eternity to her, because all the dimensions had vanished and all there was left was his eyes she could drown into.

When he held her hand for the first time that evening, it wasn't just a mere portrayal of his affection towards her, or some cheesy romance, but it was a promise that they made, without uttering a word. They made that promise of not letting go of each other within those exchange of glances. How he left her eyes shining like a pearl just out of the sea or a full day's moon. She would've never let go of that hand, never, if it wasn't for the society. "Let go of it, let go of the hand, you're not going to let him go, it's just his hand" the mind commanded, but her heart, it was melting in there, it wanted to glue those hands with the wax coming out of the heart in the form of tears, but she didn't let the tears roll down, had she done so, it would've made him upset. She could hear her heart playing notes like an acoustic guitar, and it stopped right there when the grip of those entwined hands loosened and he let go of her hand. But the intimacy had already increased, the love was now stronger than any bond.

Now, right after a month, she's craving for that hand to wipe those tears off, she's broken, the barbaric society, the cruel world is killing her dreams and he doesn't even know, he has no clue, not a hunch of what she's going through, of the hell she's residing in, and his absence makes the things even worse for her. She looks up at the moon and thinks of the nights when she was with him, how the moon looked brighter than it is now, and how the sky cried when they were going to part their ways.

Oh, love is such a torture at times.
One moment, it takes you high above, the other moment, throws you back into this filthy world. She takes the very last sip of her coffee and tries to pen down her love for him in the diary he gave her.