I have to admit,
writing for the beauty...
The salutation... the admiration..
Holds me,
To a certain stage.
I have begun to wonder,
Where do I go in my heart,
when there is no one to hold my affection...
And why hadn't that been me ?
Why had my songs, my art, my unreliquished joy become,
Surrounded by the scent,
of the lovers in my life...
When did I sell my being..
Till my Emotion,
My Truth became,
Art,
To be commissioned...
Why did I ask my heart,
To seek...
To be inspired,
by anyone but me...
Why did I ask my heart to wait,
To paint a picture,
Of Love,
That lived in me.
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