The Footsteps

Identity

Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?

How do I relieve myself of these emotions, If not by bleeding myself on paper? How do I express myself to the world, If not by baring myself for everyone to see? What is my comfort, if not being vulnerable with words? Where do I go, if not to pen and paper? To whom do I share my happiness, sadness, My sorrows, and guilt? Where do I let out my anger, Before it turns me cold and sharp? Where do I pour out the storm, Before it drowns me? Tell me, what do I do, If not write?

Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?

©Pen_Pain_Poetry

I wanted life to fill me,

to make something of the hollowness I carried.

But life was demanding—

it asked me to fill it instead,

to give my all,

to talk more than listen,

to be seen rather than simply see,

to laugh more than savor the moment.

I drained every bit of myself,

trying to stand at the forefront

of my life and that of others.

Until every bit of life was drawn out of me.

I was meant to be a simple soul,

finding joy in whatever came my way.

I don't know why the world

was so desperate to make me the engine,

when all I ever wanted

was to be a floating boat.

From hollowness to hollowness, I returned,

but now with a deeper yearning—

a longing to exist

without judgment,

without scrutiny,

without every step carrying consequence.

Now, I want to do things for their own sake,

to walk for the journey,

to breathe just for the next moment.

To let myself be filled of life,

Of the moments that don't carry meaning,

Just peace.

Areeba

"People empty me. I have to get away to refill."

– Charles Bukowski

The Frame

In the frame, lies the memories, The memories of my life, Still unsure, whether the frame, Would be hidden in the dust of shame, Or decorated in the honor of the same. It would definitely remind me of my life, Left behind, the one that gave me a new life. Still unsure, whether the frame broken, Would be repaired or thrown, It'll remind me of their last words, Their nature or true colors shown, Their happiness or fake smiles, I'll remember the old days, While standing in the old aisles. I'll still long on the memories, The frame will behold. With my eyes through which tears, Of relief or regret would flow.

~ark

The Lost Path

In the desire to explore the alien land, I left the shore of my home. My dreams tangled, They surpassed my expectations' comb. My wish to write everything, I lost the pages of my own. Midway to success, I saw myself dying all alone. As I witnessed the ultimate truth, My heart died as I achieved my goal. I now yearn to return to myself, But the path towards it remains unknown.

~ark

Guilt

The urge to remain where we are, not wanting to move, not wanting to change and then feeling guilty for not achieving, for not changing, for not beginning, for not ending, for not continuing.

Standing in front of the mirror yet avoiding it to not witness the failure achieved, to avoid the reflection of the coward who refused to give the best, who chose to ignore everything.

The guilt of not putting efforts and then reading the disappointed expressions hidden beneath the acts of consolation. To show that you worked when you never did and when they say, “At least you gave your best. That’s what matters” 

How do you break it to them? How do you present your cowardness, your lethargy, your unfaithfulness. And then, you opt for a path you never thought you would take. You become something with a void building within. All the emotions that were never expressed eventually stop hurting, they become a habit. The void gradually growing consumes all the emotions leaving a creature too selfish to even care. Showing acceptance for something you should’ve fought harder for but you leave it, you leave yourself where you were.

But in all of this, one thing remains,

The guilt of not feeling guilty. The constant war to define it, to categorise it as justification or an excuse. But these words seem inappropriate, what do you think would fit?

Cowardice, distracted, remiss or the inertia of not moving ahead from the information to know the difference to the wisdom of making one?

To be Admired

A source of light  Untouched, sacred and pure  I burn myself every moment To mark the beginning and the end of every day Everyone saw the world around, I made sure.

But a thought lingered somewhere, A desire. To be loved like the moon, to be admired Maybe I am unworthy of it I lack it's allure Never the sight to behold People look away, scorching under my gaze I hate myself then All I wanted was someone who would look my way.

To shine like the sun, first burn like it I am an inspiration but not a sight of admiration That I longed for Like the umbrella after the rain Bandage after the wound heals They are never acknowledged, Because, They aren't wants but needs 

I am untouched, sacred and pure Not a mere source of light I smile at the realisation  I am the source of life after all.

The Coin of Heroes and Villains

Villains and heroes are a jest,

Both are like either sides of a coin,

One will always be below and the other on top,

And neither will stand on their sides,

It depends on us who the villains are,

Or wether they be the head or tail,

The world really does not care that much,

But we will always be the villain on neither side.

Mr. Waltz

The Real World

In the world of lies, She lied too. In order to survive, She smiled too. All the relations formed, On the foundation of the feelings suppressed, Blinded by the fake world, She lost her conscious and herself. The artificial skin worn once, Was now a part of what she called her own. Afraid to be alone, Being a part of darkness, She couldn’t bear the light which made her true self being shown. The world she was born in, Ripped her bare, calling it an act of kindness. Their plan about to begin, They smiled at her while the mask hid their evil grin. She laid bleeding alone, Blending in the darkness of her hidden sins.

~ark

The Dictum

I chose to stay silent,

I chose to avoid violence.

I chose to be alone,

I chose to remain unknown.

I chose to accept them,

The people who hid behind the mask of a friend.

I let myself suffer,

Welcoming the troubles

I cried considering my unfaithful life,

A dictum.

But in all of this,

How was I the victim?

~ark