What goes inside, is a conjecture,
Unfathomed depths of consciousness,
A blanket may cover the mind
But the feelings cannot be.
Restlessness continues unabated
Feeling of failed life?
Complain about a bad luck?
Many are there worse.
To try and bite more than chew.
Impossible! say History.
Who am I to break the chains of routine?
Extraordinary are those failed.
Ink sketches the output of mind
But fails to divulge the truth.
What we write is for praises sake
Can we ever know ourselves?
Inside out?
The Horizon
i saw this...i felt this...i rememered...and i wrote
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