Poetry
Hundreds of memories
Thousands of hope Millions of stories Beyond one’s scope. Only if I could Turn back it’s pages I probably would Rectify its stages. But now
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Thousands of hope Millions of stories Beyond one’s scope. Only if I could Turn back it’s pages I probably would Rectify its stages. But now
As the passing clouds we go Across the various stages of life Amongst the unknown, our victory we sow As unyielding as a swordsman’s knife
My ink is blood and sometimes it can have tints of rainbows. I would smile through the woes, But don’t you ever read my journal,
Dear love, My heart skipped beats while I read your letter. I thought you moved on effortlessly, hope you find this vignetter. I am in
She bloomed within the cruel world! The world which gave people reasons not only to laugh but also to cry, The world where no one’s
I remember! Yes, I remember this letter When my tears decided to escape Out of me, I felt that is better My soul took over
To the only one it might concern, “There’s life after fall and there’s love after failure” I hope you are keeping fine. I
Turn me in to a new page, Write me a million words, Scribble a thousand times, Until you have the perfect line. Fold me in
A malady with no remedy, entered my heart It was too sturdy, which made me so feeble Nobody around me could comprehend the inadequacy I
Waking up, opening eyes Always am surprised Because I know you’re with me But I could never get used to it So i sit there,
“You must either use all that money on things that are useful, or give it away to those who are in need”, I told
Streets of Kalutara, Beautifully lit at 12.03AM— precise, Few shops opened to serve food, Travelers stopping by, to get their fill, for a smoke or
People in the huts waving to me every day, every night But mental forces I have got told me that was not right Beaming stones
She drinks portions of thoughts everyday, With these hefty coals she heaps; Makes headway, Humming her music on the march to Survive. Eager and doubtful,
He made dirt of her Nothing like God’s craft Battered her Then bed her sore, bruised and swollen It didn’t matter The Priest had said,
Hobbled in an untrodden trail, Rough and tough, Amidst the sandy storms, Across the fiery flames, Felt feeble and fed-up, In the pursuit of peace,
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The season is relaxing washing in on ocean waves the sand captures tender land escapes drapes of quiet look rest is special test captivates our
Until you let go of what hurts you,
screaming won’t ease the pain.
The day stars new all is peaceful at sun up a fresh strong breath of tree’s The Christmas tree is filled with a thousand memories
The Walls We Build: “There is loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of