Writing is the Painting of the Voice - Voltaire

Like a blazing Sun on a clear sky, He started out his journey of life. Fearless, doubtless and confident, Radiating dreams of unthinkable. As his days pass, his blazing fire, Overshadowed by doubts and failure. Snares by those very hope and dreams, Beaten by the very high expectations. Of tides and wrong calls that made, His paths divulge into endless oblivion. Those dreams which once fuelled him, Becomes the very thing which drags. Hope's and expectations of him, Too heavy a burden, sink him down, Into endless pit of self pity and doubts. His wing clipped by those that close, And those for whom, he live his life for. Never had he expected how hard, It is to continue living one more day. His end he keep praying comes by, Sooner than later and freed him, From this crushed Life.

Small yet so far, compact yet isolated. Each one in one's own world Three hour journey it was supposed to be Share the same view and same experience Across the lush green mountain and stream Over the field waiting for the reaper to reap. Each with one's own purpose and reason. We shared our journey. Some has destination far, some near. Yet if fate befall us we be all dead. Our life fate as it is placed upon drivers. Call it a privacy, we had our own world in this.. The bumpy jump that effect us all A breathe we lost. Last they tell of times where all, Shared laughter and another platform for Acquittance of bond that last a life. Now a dried taste One crazy enough to strike up old ways,  Are frown upon and shown the door. What has become of us. A social being we proclaimed ourselves to be. Yet rubbing shoulder on shoulder a words hardly utter. Where is that humanity in us... Distrust and what not abound.. Trust and fraternity a farce in the forest.