I often wish I was only a traveler, I didn't have a sense or need for permanency, no defined goal no objectives in mind and the only think I would know is how much time I could spend at a place. The people I would meet would be like long arrays of names, and name tags and hellos and some of these names would stick to me and some of them won't , some of the memories will keep me happy at night and some will haunt me and yet none of them are things I wish didn't happen. I am a man who has made many mistakes and though I would love to tell everyone that I could take them back and just be a name on the flight list, my bags remain unpacked for now, and though you may remember me as that blurry figure who might have been nice or worse I hope it changed something someway.
Traveler Diaries
Here's to the traveler who travels at night, between handles and pumped air and seat belts alike,
Who has packed up with no baggage underneath his seat, just the things he gets to carry in his mind
The ones who are remembered like the stamps on a passport page, and in interviews some days,
Who are often found like the box of lost and found, some who have always in memories remained
The coffee cup lays empty still , I drink no more, I no longer walk you home at night,
You are but free from the traveler, from the niceties , and what the world thinks is too polite
I am carried on between memories, we are what we write about in nostalgia sublime,
I have lived but without a log or trace, and then there are things that I have left behind
My expectations from a travel diary at times, is that it talks back so loud in pages I write,
Between miscommunications, and flawed design , we will often find a reason to not let go, to fight
In between this right and wrong, in between what you may call as fiction at times,
You will find my impressions on the tea cup I used to drink, the coffee cups were never mine
The traveler travels this Christmas day, he logs his ups and down, he lays his eyes to rest,
He keeps his motives in the dreams that he dreams, if he could steal a dream as he lies in bed
When all that matters, is between pages of a book , he closes that chapter he feels no one reads,
He disappears without fare or farewell, he does what he does out of happiness he cares not for heed.
Traveler Diaries
Here's to the traveler who travels at night, between handles and pumped air and seat belts alike,
Who has packed up with no baggage underneath his seat, just the things he gets to carry in his mind
The ones who are remembered like the stamps on a passport page, and in interviews some days,
Who are often found like the box of lost and found, some who have always in memories remained
The coffee cup lays empty still , I drink no more, I no longer walk you home at night,
You are but free from the traveler, from the niceties , and what the world thinks is too polite
I am carried on between memories, we are what we write about in nostalgia sublime,
I have lived but without a log or trace, and then there are things that I have left behind
My expectations from a travel diary at times, is that it talks back so loud in pages I write,
Between miscommunications, and flawed design , we will often find a reason to not let go, to fight
In between this right and wrong, in between what you may call as fiction at times,
You will find my impressions on the tea cup I used to drink, the coffee cups were never mine
The traveler travels this Christmas day, he logs his ups and down, he lays his eyes to rest,
He keeps his motives in the dreams that he dreams, if he could steal a dream as he lies in bed
When all that matters, is between pages of a book , he closes that chapter he feels no one reads,
He disappears without fare or farewell, he does what he does out of happiness he cares not for heed.
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