If you are a wise old man
Who can tell right from wrong
Someone who knows about life
And, everything else beyond.
If you are someone who can cherish
The beauty of nature and its sounds
And, can love endlessly,
Without being love bound.
Then, know that I look for you
To come and give me hope
For, my friend, I am troubled
And am unable to cope.
But, if you are young, naive
Like me, as is fated
You are tired of life and death
And, all things related
You’ve left many things behind
And, some things have left you
You spent your life collecting memories
And, now that’s all that’s left of you.
Then, know that you’re not alone
And, we can still get through life
Be my friend, I am troubled
For even that will suffice.
Before all the lying verses
All the wounds and all the nurses
Before all the bizarre lines
And, the outbreak of bullets and mines
Before all the chaotic words
And, the debauching swearing curse
Before the letters that made it all
Before the erection of that wall.
There was just me
And, there was just you.
And, there was peace.
“What happened to him?”
“Well, he took a bold step.
He woke up. He destroyed the dreamy world he was living in to wake up to reality, hoping that perhaps the regret would pass. And, then, reality struck him. He confirmed what he already knew. He confirmed that reality wasn’t good. It was cruel. Brutal. Callous.
That’s is his story. The reality struck him.”
“Why do you write poems?”
“In the hope, that one day the people for whom I wrote these poems, would read them and understand those feelings which I never communicated with my voice.
“In the hope, that one day, after reading the morning newspaper, out of all the millions of things you could do, you would pick up your laptop and out of all those thousands of things you could search for, you would search for poems. On account of that little, beautiful magic, we call coincidence, you would get on my blog and of all the poems, would read the one I meant for you. And, then, out of all the hundreds of explanations that those combinations could have, you would understand the one I wish you to. You would know that I wrote it for you, because of this thing we have. You would not say anything though, you would not ask me. You would just know, just know what’s going on in my mind and just help me. And, maybe, hopefully, after the incidences in question are over, you would come to me and ask me in subtle words- That poem? It was meant for me, right? – And, I would give a little beautiful nod and we would just smile.
“In the hope of that little chance, I write poems”
“Why do you write poems?”
“No reason at all.”
The ink in unerasable. There are just two choices: let the words just stay there, for you to read every time you look back or tear the pages apart.
Hand is merely a medium,
It’s the soul that writes.
The greatest poem i would ever write,
Would be a heart touching story,
It will sing of happiness,
Euphoria,love and glory.
But more than anything,
it will sing of sadness and pain,
At intervals they would cross the protagonist,
To hamper his fame.
For else how would anyone know,
What life means if they aren’t sad,
Or learn what happiness means,
If they never something they had.
In the end, it would narrate,
Of tranquility of peace,
A stroke of realization,
And an eternal stream.
But it is just an abstract,
I am not yet out of the pit ,
But , when I came out I realized,
Almighty already did.