Poetry is the subtleties of life.

Let me cry rivers
and not be asked about it.
Let me shut myself in my room
and not have people knocking at my door.
Let me pass uninformed comments
and not be embarrassed by the people that surround me.
Let me be a stranger,
a forgettable face in the masses.
Let me not stand out,
or blend into the ordinary.
I am lonely,
let me be alone.

All things work together for good,
I’m told.
Even if that work together is
silver or gold.

People tell me that I’m going crazy.
They’re just lazy,
To figure out the real issue that lies underneath.
Underneath all the perfect gloss and shining sheath.

Maybe I am going crazy- on second thought,
Even then,
It’s working together for good, I guess.
Or are my brain and heart just playing plain ol’ chess.

This is all.
I rest my case.
Cause I don’t even know what’s my home base.
Anymore.

It slowly walked towards me,
Despite all the heavenly pleas.
And held my hand with its scaly dry hand,
With the scythe in the other,
Guaranteed me eternal scourge.
It came with a hood,
Mask covering the face that no gaze has lived to describe.
Its magnificence of the hood shall drive insane.
It lives beyond the mortal plane.
He took me home along with sorrow as a bribe.
Only some can fool it,
Fewer can forever escape.
It has no structure, no shape;
No one lives to take its hit.
Neither thorough luck, nor prayers will come to play.
For it has the final say.
Rustling through the pages of everyone’s fate,
It’s neither early nor late.
It bears a weary look,
And its coming has everyone shook.
All call it unholy, Beelzebub's messenger & devilish
Yet it never fails to abduct with no last wish.
Most fear it,
Only the most gallant open arms to it.
No one can win any blitz.
I let him take me away,
For it will drop me here again.
After, restoring my sanity again.
For it will drop me here again.

Together we wrote our stories
Together we sang our songs.
Our hands clenched in each others’
Hoping aging won’t break bond.
Our hands at first were held tight.
As I played in your lap
& you’d shackle away all my fright.
But I aged as everyone aspires to
But not as I coveted to.
Left me scars
Left me nostalgia
Left me threads
Threads that I kept hidden in a place called memories
Memories some I want to hold on forever
Some not so much
Everyone asked me
How I was
What I was
But I didn’t speak the one truth
The truth that’d shackle all the pains
But no one had the power to listen to it.
That’s what I think.
Or perhaps, I’m too frail to speak about it.
Now I’m too huge for the lap.
It feels like my innocence is sapped.
The songs have lost their melody.
The proses have lost their relevance.
But, I still try to make sense.
Sense of the senseless words I write.
But I fear something is going to bite.
Bite me as bad as a bit has been.
I fear I’ll be like Charlie Sheen.
I say people lack the strength to bear the truth.
But am I the one in ruth?
Nostalgia is all I have.
Yet, it still makes me “the bad”.
No one knows about it.
& no one will.
Well, until all recognise the troubles I’ve seen.
I’m not keen.
I’m not seen.
Nostalgia is my only sin.