Eternal Sunset, Empty Eyeballs

The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd - The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are.”
― Fernando Pessoa

So empty these eyeballs I see

Dry of imaginations mysteries

Do they feel what I feel?

Plain truth lives deceits

Audience do they seek in me

To witness some silent speech

Far off can they heave?

Into vastness of eternities

Empty eyeballs

Eyeballs emptied

Personal Concerns

What concerns me is that man, unable to articulate, to express himself adequately, reverts to action. Since the vocabulary of action is limited, as it were, to his body, he is bound to act violently, extending his vocabulary with a weapon where there should have been an adjective?
 ~Joseph Brodsky

You and I are same in so many ways. We are happy but at the same time in a little deplorable state. Have so many wishes yet to be fulfilled and so many concerns of everyday life that eats up almost half of our times. Usually, not always, when I feel low or distracted I write it all down and then tear it away. Purge out all the emotions or feelings on some useless paper, on blog, on Facebook and what not. Yes that does sound little awkward when said out loud but almost everyone I know have his/her own coping mechanisms. Other times I just scare the hell out of people, specially my mum,  and blither out everything right on their faces. This process of writing or speaking out maintains an equipoise and it keeps me from flattening out. But something smutty happens when I do neither..
 

Something keeps bugging me
personal concerns is what people call
bugs I can't put my finger on
it rattles so sharp and render me insane
I scribble them all down, simmering pain
it never actually die, not instantly
as soon as I finished my scribble
roaring flame caged and hog-tied
stinging still bothers me but it subsides

On some random days
I pick some words out
out of my  mind's own word-hoard
and holler them out loud
words sounded much heavier
when  my voice was added to its core
awful clumsiness that fogged me
didn't melt away, vision little clearer
than it was a while before

When I can't write a single word
with so much ink that I hold
sound that I made was so mumbling
and bedimmed, better if I left it untold
even my torrid eyes crashed
all bottled up inside, I acted out rash
actions so reckless, I confess
slipshodness felt so bad, wished
I'd have done something else instead.

Out of all that vexes me
my inaction and indecision
what concerns me more
I have my own ghosts to fight
ghosts that are seen by none
none but me and that's alright
I have my own armada to rely on
as much as I love to look back
I must move ahead and carry on..