Exciting Lighting

I was looking through my playlist,
And noticed that the last time I listened to The Strokes,
Which is supposedly the nominal favourite band of all time in my opined gesture of a post.
Was 2 months ago.

It was less of a sad revelation, then it was a disappointing one.

It is all winning glory when my career of structuralised arguments put into moot ends with a happy episode of pride and relief.

Relief....hmm.

That was it then. I did not want to let it go.

Because isn't that what relief is about? Releasing. Sure, struggles were meant to be part of the dogmatic package of hope. But the thing is without the toil there wouldn't be the oil that became the source of light...the source..

Of endlessly incoherent poetry.

You see, as an individual, I was never much up for planning..anything.

All of my poems are drafts, my thoughts subconsciously thrown into forms of words.

Until debate came and ruined that sense of randomness.

And now, when I try to revert back to erratic disclosure of expressions and feelings.

I actually feel...awkward.

Maybe I just need to learn how to tune my guitar.
Maybe I should just leave it entirely, making it of as a trail of youth that I shall walk away from.

Under one umbrella of conformity, you couldn't even call that melodramatic.

Success comes with a price of complexity.

Especially when quotes, are only deemed quotable, when other people think they are.

Not when a self principle rules that it shall thus be a gimmick of the mind.

On to the show.

---

I'm not much up for ecstatic,
Or anything cinematic,
I just hope that the rain would stop.

Because the signboard on the left side,
Of main street and the nightlife,
We left to get a life for ourselves.

I'm not much up for anything at all,
When the city people,
Want to forget who they are.

They say u can't run away,
From civilisation.

I told them,
Who's running away here?

Not much for reconciliation,
When the pitiful left their stations.

Exciting lighting,
They will sing,
The electric thing,
We used to dance to.

Committing crimes,
With as much value as a dime,
Is it a waste of time,
Says who?

Great people make great mistakes,
Not grave mistakes.