Here I am back to square one.
I was hoping we could be together alone,
But call it fate wouldn’t have it my way,
So here we are back to square one.
Its been a while since we held on,
To our love.
But I ask you how long?
How long are you planning to hold on to this withered rope?

There was a time when I felt things would be just like sunshine.
A mere fairtail that I held on too…
You and I are a different kind.
Being alike and still apart has always been testing times.
Now I am back to square one.

From this point on,
Dont mind me hon:
Cause I might burn,
Whats left of us.

I’m left to writing you my last love song.
I did give my all.
Holding on to the bond still kept diminishing.
Standing at a point not knowing what more I can offer.

So I ‘m moving on.
I am starting back on square one.

Times I felt you needed more,
Or we both did,
need a different kind of love.
I’ve given up hope on receiving flowers, celebrating anniversaries and those little things you think less off.
Now we’ve reached a point where even saying those three magical words is a task. Was it too much to ask?
Did you not know I wanted to make memories for us to cherish when we grew old?
Lust can’t make up for love.
Was it lust or was it love?
That made us yern.
I warned you this will burn.

I wished you would want us to work as much as I did.
Or else you would’ve done things differently.
You would work towards achieving it.
I don’t want to push you to the brink.
so I’m starting back on square one.

Forgive me love for I have to move on.
From you, from love, from all that, alone.


A Kind Of Love

She finds solace in the wounds she inflicts.
She makes me bleed with every smirk and scornful smiles.
Glad that I am in misery so deep,
That I have no place to hide:
Only solitude or may be eternal sin that would be my escape.
End this torture inflicted life.
Needs purifying every now and then,
Sprinkles of liquor from time and again.

Every word uttered a melody of pure disgust.
Makes one flinch at her thoughts.
Why does she not know?
Why does she not see?
How her blessing turn to venom infecting her prey.
Numbs the senses at first,
Then slowly creeps to clutch at my heart,
gagged with pain to drain it of every emotion.
Is this what she calls love?


Testing times may come and go.
There is not a soul below,
who doesn’t  bend with time.
It is that chimes,
with historic rhymes.
Of which treasures,
are gathered in catacombs.
Buried in lost time,
are the sacrifices of true men
And women divine.

I fail to decide.
Do their deaths mean more
Than their lives?
Was it death that gave more meaning to their sacrifice?