Your shores of hope are little too distant than mine,
I have always chosen pain over winds of bliss,
But that never was intentional,
Every morning I throw my windows open,
Hoping for a breeze to pass by,
Hoping for a syringe full of adrenaline to wake me up again,
But these days, every dawn is letting me down
As if my fresh wounds are being frowned on, by those bleeding horizons,
I’d always taken pride in my paranoia,
But that’s how paranoids are,
Afraid,
And pride is the sanest sanctum for those who seek shelter from fear,
shunned, since storms shushed those shores of sorrow.

Those shores of hope are little too distant than mine,

I’ve never been quieter before,
I’ve never let those packs of cigarettes in my closet entice me,
But tonight why I’m smoking those fumes of fickle flickers of firm falsehoods, a little too much.
It seems a cage of clouds, clogging the crumbling cask of courage,
That I pretend to possess, is pushing me past those pledges of pretense.

I remember you telling me one little less peaceful night than tonight,
You’d said, “You just happened!.”

Let me tell you something,
I don’t just happen to people,
I grow on them,
And if I don’t.

Blame the barren brooks!

Listen closer,
There is a distant song playing,

“Now you say, “You’re sorry”,
Well, you can cry me a river,

Cause I cried a river.. over you.”

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