Base of This Beast

vbI should be studying. I should be taking rest. I should be doing anything but write profitlessly on my sequence of sameness. Why is it that the words keep on flowing?? Why does the vacuam grow inside my self when I am staring aimlessly in the depths of the night, thinking of nothing else but...?

I love you. SO cliched. So boring. So like the gazillions of other people who have thought, said, and done it so many different languages, but never ever has they understood proper what LOVE really is, because its the very same people who have suffered the shadow between the essence of love and its dissent into language. So no, I won't be telling you all about that.

So what is the purpose of this post???

Well, yesterday I saw the person I thought I loved six months ago. And I felt nothing. Nothing.

So there. End of the story. The thoughts have died and so have my will to write. I am sending over a poem I wrote 5 months ago. You all who read it are free to make comments.

Need

When we were inside
And we were pulling and pusihing
Tearing apart with indecent haste
The vestiges of our senses,
Pouring deep inside
The tiny vortex that lay
Suddenly trembling,
Then, then was the time
When all stilled. All made
The sound of silence.
And we stilled as well,
Holding each other as the dawn filtered in.
And I knew the need that binds you to me.