blah blah blah …



what is this life i live, once simmering with promise, now relegated to pigeonholes of so many lives led.

what becomes of this multitude of lives, where gentle peace and brutal strife smash against the ramparts of my soul.

the erosion of hope, year by year, the fear of the corrosion of love, of giving it all, only to be discarded in the rubbish bins of glitzy shopping malls, where emotions are traded, where trust is a commodity, where truth has long past its sell-by date, where love is bartered for the flim-flam of possessions, where feelings are numbed, printed dead on a budget t-shirt, where lost souls wander the emptiness, and broken hearts litter the polished marble floors.

is this the life you thought you would lead, filled with promise and love and 2 and a half kids and apple pie and picket fences, is this the vault you now feel ensnared in, for the dream once dreamed sours fast, quicker than the vows taken that were meant to last.

where do i retreat to, to regain some of my youthful promise, to see the moonlight dancing on your eyebrows, when love was simple, when we were free of the straightjacket of suits, when clasped hands and butterfly kisses meant more than all the world, when through the pain we held onto each other, as the days and months unfurled.

don’t you feel trapped at times, pouring your heart out on insipid rhymes, walking alone in this crowd, feeling it all to be a vacuum of the banal, day in and day out, shrieking your lungs out, muted, as from cubicle to cubicle you wander about.

these words may make some sense to me, for i have long forgotten to see, the wonder of a spring rain shower, when i now i trample, obliviously, the delicate blossoming flower.

what has become of me, of us, as we stutter in the haze of apathy, brokering our humanity for a pittance, cloaking ourselves in what we deem as armour, meant to protect who knows what from what knows what, gradually chipping away at our very core, where once thrived dreams of something better, something more, more than this dreary parade, far much more than this charade, where we have forgotten who we really are,

when everything seems a cacophony of meaningless blah blah blah …










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