In search of the self

now what shall i write?
about the dreams or the hopes perished?
the dream wishes never stop hoping in the depths of mind.
thoughts, concepts or imaginations..
by whatever name you may call it..
but now i wish to pen on it..
they're like a mirage which tempts me to follow....,
to follow through dark hollows and denseness of mind, staring,
and finally drags me to nothingness
caused by the realization of unattainable..

they are ideas...

like a bratty thing which has forgotten the lessons of obedience,
deviates from my pen tip which i hold when motivated to write
by being provoked by some sudden
and irrepressible alarm of thoughts

there..

alphabets are useless in the absence of ideas..

i wish they to shower my hopes and dreams blended
like a rainfall never stopping
i wish they to disperse my crumbled dreams
like a rainbow of colours of joy
and i wish them to make poems
of imagination
with the queue of weeping terms

if so..
i could be gratified by seeing the empire of ideas
if they built the palace of hopes too..