Monday, 3 July 2017
"IT'S NOT TOO LATE'
How did we end up here? How did we abandon the good and chose to abide by the wrong? Where are the days when older women portrayed motherly images and older men were father figures? Where did it all go wrong? Why are the youth so mislead? A lost generation we truly are, and I hate writing about this. I'd rather be writing children stories but I am appalled by the truth and the reality of the world we're living in. The morals we left behind because we felt that they were heavy for our new generation souls, then we picked up regrets that will forever weigh down our hearts to our graves. Why are our irises so dusty?
Long gone are the days the elderly would lead the youth not mislead or mock them. Long gone are the days humanity lived. Long gone are the days we had lively conversations with our loved ones. Now, we sit with our devices following other peoples' lives on social media, forgetting our own. When will the stars rain down on Earth and end this filthy world? Am I insane to have fear within myself, that one day I will be expected to be a father and raise my innocent kids in this nest of serpents? Is it any fair bringing them up in a way I find right and upright, just to have them and their innocence snatched by the world, a place where everyone else quenches their thirst on the venom from this serpent called 'The World'? Am I the only one worried?
They once said that 'What's intended to happen will'. Murphys law. But then, 'One thing leads to another'. The Butterfly Effect. If we made wise choices, If we loved eachother, If we lead eachother, If we helped eachother, If we lived by the light, by the right and by the truth, preserved humanity and our morality and understood that we aren't characters in this story, but the authors to it, then whatever we chose to put down, would've been a beautiful story. But then, it's not too late.
"Not Too Late"
Gone are the days that you'd rest your head on my chest and smell the scent of my ripe goosebumps, those days that I would lose count o...
He knocked on the door, but unlike usual, there was no response. No eager answer served on hugs and kisses that night like it has always be...
A picture in my hands, s lightly over two decades old . A baby tightly calm, in arms, m y eyes grow wet and cold . A tear splashes, on...
"My bones ache from your touch. My goosebumps rise to worship your fingertips . They ripen from the warmth in your palms. You free th...