I'm not particularly wonderful.
I can't enhance one's reality
I'm penned by a bored and wilful writer
I don't have a distinct quality.

I may have rhyme, rhythm, or I may not
I may be emotional, or dreary
I'm a work of language, of random words
I may be soothing, I may be scary.

Some of you say I'm one of a kind,
Some of you aren't sure where I'm from,
Some believe I exist for a reason,
Some reckon I'm remarkably dumb.

You may think I'm an exhibitionist
I'm not aware, I can't care what you say
But I love being read, when your eyes see me-
Insignificant, but it makes my day.

When do we become adults?
When can we say we are grown?
Actions speak louder than words
Where is all we should have known?

What is right, but what is wrong?
The grey between black and white
Eludes us in life's colours
Creeping over in the night.

Make mistakes and learn, they say
And I make them tirelessly
In these chasms of fate I find
Whatever will be, will be.

Young and old cannot define
The years behind new sorrows
Adult and child unconfined
Worrying about tomorrows.

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees,
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;
She is a Gypsy,—will not speak to those
Who have not learnt to be content without her;
A Jilt, whose ear was never whispered close,
Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;
A very Gypsy is she, Nilus-born,
Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;
Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;
Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!
Makeyour best bow to her and bid adieu,
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.

I had my fingers on a string
And only I could see
The pleasant sound that I could bring
A note of symphony.
The fond caress of vibration
On the forgotten hand
Evokes in me such elation
I fly above my land.

Hey God, you there? (If you exist)
This is a written interview
Answer as many as you can
There's a lot I have to ask you.
Some days I look up at the sky
Thinking, what do you have in mind?
What exactly are you planning?
Where are the clocks you want to wind?
Have you wound them all? I wonder
As time goes on, as life occurs
It's thrown into order, then chaos
Running riot- will structure recur?
But then again- what is order?
It sounds boring- I do think so
I suppose it brings one some calm
A safe haven from thoughts that flow.
Have you left hours free? I ponder
As miracles occur in doom
If good things come to those who wait
Must one wait long for flowers to bloom?

Sometimes when I'm brimming with words to say
My mouth shuts up, nothing comes out.
It works to my advantage at most times
But when I want to scream or shout
Yell to the world when I'm happy or sad
Or just have a conversation
There's no one I can count on to hear me
Listen without explanation.

I sing the tune of my life alone.
I was born that way, so I do so.
But now that I'm an adult and grown
The melody soars, my breath is slow
The song falters, though I try to sing
The beat of the world goes fast
My voice breaks, and my ears start to ring
With how I let the rhythm fly past.

Through the noise I can see in the crowd
Some partners in crime, catching lost breath
Some others like me, who cannot sing loud
Trying their best to live, to escape death.
So we join hands, and start once again
It's much easier to meet the beat
We're different tunes with a common refrain
Together, the music's almost... complete.