Of What Shall I Write

Of what shall I write?
The cold, the shivering,
the blank maze of fog?
The pains and misunderstandings,
the subdues of relationships?
The tales of friendship?
The memoirs of happiness?
The bulk of lessons,
the raining bullets of thought?
Peddling legs, weaving dreams?
Unspoken words, silent gestures?
Hopeful assumptions? Discredited ideals?
Of what shall I write when the words
dissolve into the depths of blank diaries?
Of wasted time? Of vain reveries?
Of underrated feelings?
Of mainstream discussions?
Of ignorance, of vanity,
of distinguished personalities?
Of what shall I write
To you-
Of love? Of separation?
Of disparities of sitting miles apart?
Of what, my love? Of what?

Spotless

Some things are a feast to our complex thoughts
We know we are tangled
We know we are stuck in a confined room of our mind
But we project it out on the wall in front of us
And its projection is blank
As white and colourless as the colour of the wall
Until someone comes and asks what we are thinking
And we know, "it's just nothing".