You don't know me enough

My confession

          Dear (Honestly I don't know),

                                                People think they know me.They know me enough.They think I'm a great writer arranging thoughts the way they want to see,feel and hear.They think I am capable of that diversity which is triggered in every living soul.A diversity of emotions.I play and strum the strings of my guitar.I smile and cheer up the atmosphere around.They really know me enough.They think I'm deeply and madly in love and I am quite passionate about those feelings.Yes,they know me enough.

The things which I know about myself are confidential.But what if my soul wants to scream at the top of its lungs that I'm not actually what these people think me to be.I am nothing.A tattered piece of cloth.A cloth which has been stained,and which is frayed.A cloth which has not been worn yet.

I am a writer.I write what I feel.I have my own visions because I cannot sit,think hard and then try to compose.I cannot fake my expressions.I write spontaneously ,no matter how lame it sounds.I do not write so much.Who actually writes so much?I mean who has the time?I write with visions without having any guarantee as to when that vision will fade away.Yes,I am bad at concocting episodes or fabricating fragments like the great Opium addict,Samuel Taylor Coleridge.Infact I am penniless,having no access to any sort of opium or wine.Yes,I can only afford to sleep on a park's bench leaving the grand house which my parents have built for me.The bench and its cold wood give me a feeling of composure which my cosy,butterfly-sheathed bed has failed to give.

I am difficult .I am complex.I am like William Blake.Afterall,who could ever understand Blake?

I flaunt around with the idea of having a dream-boy.That handsome fellow dressed in a white t-shirt and skin-fit blue denim jeans is enough to give me....orgasm.Yes!His hair can appropriately be messy after all who actually has the time to comb the hair while admiring a Greek God?

I am a lost writer.I am trying to meet myself .In the process,I am leaving behind some fragments of my poetry which one day will complete the jigsaw puzzle and trust me every part will fit in.I just flaunt around with the idea of true love.Does it even exists?Where is it?If it's there,just tell it to be long-lasting and not so short that I will be left intoxicated and won't be able to discern the clandestine difference between the reality and fancy.

Love is a term of endearment,long forgotten by me.Whenever I gather courage and rise up,apprehensions charge me down.I am tied to a wall by adamantine chains.It's just i can wait for someone to break them before they let loose some wild beasts to devour and scratch me.

Yours truly,

A stranger

Author's Note

Thanks for reading the crap which I just jotted down.But some category of crap can actually make a difference.Thanks for reading something about me.

Reviews

[Stonz P.]

This is a bloody good piece.
There are a few errors but who gives a f**k.. the piece is damn brilliant.

Have you read from the Beat generation? There is that tone to this..
I think everyone should read this, not only to understand but to know what it's like.

Thank you for sharing this.

[fattycbreezy52]

omg!your appreciation is something i look forward to whenever i pen down any piece..And i know there are lots of errors.Lots of!lLife itself is an error.But yes who gives a f**k ?Afterall I am not a perfectionist.And who actually is? And Beat Gen?Yes,i have heard a lot about them.Thanks for reading it:)I am glad:)

[Misery]

...And another piece to the stranger's meandering puzzle is delicately fitted into place.

[fattycbreezy52]

See. I told you already!

[Misery]

You also had me reading William Blake today.
For some reason I have a desire to become a chimney sweep.

[fattycbreezy52]

Wowwwww. You have started with an amazing piece . Keep reading songs of innocence and experience and you will very soon realise thr difference. GLad that you read it:)

[Misery]

OK, Fatty.