Here and now again
in solitude
with a potpourri of thoughts nonsense
albeit a subject indefinite.
Nothing.
All there is
is the image of you,
humming the sweetest song,
enjoying every minute of what life has to offer.

As if you were the only one there.
But I was there too
under the blanket of pretence
with eyes fixated on you
and yours not on me
not even a second.
Nothing.

You were blind.
I was mute
thinking aloud but silence is perpetual.
What good are words
if you were deaf?
You ARE deaf.
I should have known.

I dwell in despair’s domicile,
no joy is known
no pity from anyone.
I am sick
of waiting
of hoping
for nothing
and nothing’s changed.
How long is this waiting,
my being mute,
your being deaf
that leads to nothing?
And on nothing goes
and no one I’ll always be
to you.

 

*For The Daily Post’s daily prompt, Solitude.

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  1. […] – Solitude 2. Solitude – University Life 3. Writings from the Meadow – SOLITUDE 4. PenVille – Musings of a Teenager 5. the details – toldweb 6. The Daily Post – Progressing into Solitude – Not So Solitude […]

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About hellopenville

Writing is my one true north. (The other is eating spaghetti. I make the best pastas in the whole world I swear!) I have been writing since age 10. I remember being in another school a lot because of Campus Journalism contests. I was a grade-school copyreader, headline-writer, and feature writer, who emerged to be a college editorial writer and eventually a TV news writer. However, I have always been an insecure artist. These constant condescending thoughts always stopped me from creating: “No one would read this.” “This has been written before and therefore no one would read this.” “This is not interesting enough and therefore no one would read this.” “This is not relevant, or factual, or trendy enough and therefore no one would read this.” But I learned to risk to write even if no one reads it, than not to have written anything at all. To resist writing is to resist truth itself, to betray that which comes freely to you when you do not allow it to be manifested through you. I didn’t think writing was serious work. But every time I thought about writing, it would make me nervous. It would rattle me and frighten me. I would shake the ground under me. Aren’t dreams like that too? Read more at penville.net.

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