Slinging scribbles

As I grow up I realize we are growing up and falling down, Sun that rises high and sun that falls down, Waves gushing, waves surrendering, Lives pushing, love dying, I wonder who all are winning? But is there enough time? Tell me there is for I see no pause, Its mundane, the dichotomy of living two faces while seeing none, Not a moment's lore to hear the tales, the introspection to change, Bearing me, its only me, who will find 'I' and only 'me'. Its the 'i' tune, Its 'my' book, Hear that voice, hear ego tell, Tale tinkering tragic trap. Moment's silence draped by sulky dreams, broken beams, Wind that passes by surprisingly, blows with fists, There is nothing good for its obsessive to not appreciate, For there is a fall, there is no rise, there is an 'I', where there is no 'Us'.  

One of my dear friend posted a random image on the facebook page about something she strongly felt about, an opinion which was reflexive and evident of the image. It was followed by several likes and comments, some of which were nice and the rest not so nice. Those likes and comments too, reflected an opinion or an ideology, or perhaps an understanding that they had in common or uncommon. This was followed by a huge debate on who thought what on what grounds, each hell-bent to prove his wordsworth (worth by means of words), much to the amusement of the onlookers who liked random comments and boosted and crushed several egos in the process. But, we all know, its a tough thing to put down. It will raise its ugly head every now and then as a matter of pride and satisfaction in being ugly. Now, to have several of those egos crashing down on each other's posts as if their intelligence would be determined by the vile comments they made and the ostentatious 'likes' they ga...

Eyes, they failed to meet the seen, Smile, that faded for they lacked the feel, Love, a question that hounded for an answer, a mystery! Words, a conquest won by the business interests over hearty feelings, Life,  remained  on Facebook, yet a book devoid of real faces,                                             All of it, a Routine; a root with a route in search for the lost water,                           Maybe, for that Beauty, he expressed to all, yet couldn't name one, Aroused and confused, he saw them in his dreams and fantasized to the hilt, Yet, remained pure for, not a skin, he touched although blamed. Bruised,at times and vented back with vengeance yet a mi...