...

I once reached a state of quandary, just writing
And gathered it was easier to keep away.
What is the point in disrupting a feeling,
Beauty is best unexpressed any day.
Thus deluded myself, to veil my seething,
That there was not a pair of eyes to even glance this way.

But now, all that was buried, labeled 'consumed',
Is budding forth in ways hauntingly wont.
And the me that could not stake being presumed,
Is peeping out coyly, daunt,
Like a flower's first blush at a mirror, ever since she bloomed.

It suddenly dawned on me, had me breath taken:
There is nothing to ponder about,
Nothing to fight and no effort that needs to be taken.
What is struggling inside to come afloat,
Will do so, by its own accord with no room for being mistaken.

Where's all the uncertainty gone?
Is this some new form of self deception that has me unto it, drawn?

A well deserved slap, this very piece of articulation
Saved me from the mishap, of losing myself to a life-long evasion
Of the fact that i had just not looked in, deep enough.

There is a certain beauty, unadulterated, in expression:
It's neither the lie about the truth, nor the truth about the lie,
It is, but a manifestation of the observer's choice in reaction,
Whether to stay ensconced in this illusory pie in the sky,
Or go beyond, to redeem the pen pusher from the origins of its creation.

There's a reason, there always is, my distressed soul used to scream
Oh yes, there is! And now this is no dream!