Call out my name

Hey stranger
why are you veiled like a mystic beauty?
like some hideous creature, you crawl in my psyche.
What color is your heart - purple may be
because it never seems to throb.
Painfully cold....huh...
nonreciprocating love
is what i get from you as a reward.
You were so virtually mine
but virtual could never be real
i had forgotten meanwhile.
I follow you like crazy
left my life, started living yours
& you shy away from even looking at me?
What do they call it in your world
- being courteous may be?
well my world calls it - insensitive.
Insensitive - is the word
for those cold gazes of yours
which casts me like a stone
and freezes me as cold as white snow.
I crave to melt
melt in your arms.
I crave to melt into something insignificant
but only in your arms.
You are like a blood sucking moth
careless to my pains
& even my moans
cannot reach your dead ears.
I wish to drown, die early
cause now you notice me barely.
My verses my songs
never touch your heart.
You are so unreachable
my hope falls apart.
Show me some signs
some movements some words
so that i continue to hope.
Hope against all odds
hope against your coldness
against your wrath.
Please don't turn your back
i would extinguish
like a dying flame.
Don't stop yourself further
go ahead and for once
call out my name.


This happens when a writer falls in love with the character created by himself. He is puzzled between the question of what is real and what is virtual. This question has bewitched many and would continue to do the same, don't know till when. I suffered the same pain....and if you are a writer, it would infect you soon....