Concentration
Is as important as putting each morsel in the mouth when you are famished

When you argue with a stupid man,
It's a good indication
That you aren't wise enough
To keep your energy safe
To speak a powerful truth

Two lads, I'd say, of thirteen, just passed;
One in barefoot with a backpack;
One in shorts, shoes and black socks,
Pulled up over bloated calves.
One athletic, lean and gearing;
One more leaning towards academia.
Both waiting to enter high school.

They met in JK.
They slept on their towels, in their tents,
At each other's house on weekends.
They served together, lived as one;
Their mothers loved them as sons.
That's how close they'd become.
Their worlds will change,
Once this season's done.

One will be the talk of his circle,
The other, the talk of his;
But there's a Venn where the rings entwined
Before they turned thirteen.
Their hybrid youth,
Their cloned friendship,
Memories already determined.

Around fires and bells,
Or a covered porch on a rain - washed day;
They'll dig up some old moments
Of the other when they were young.
Buried treasures for days of leisure,
Apart, yet part of their sum.

Solitude is such a wonderful society
Where no one nitpicks and censures us;
Only peace lingers on...

When we learn something by heart
It becomes a perfect path for us to walk on and the passion overwhelming us

Everything is sweltering:
Turn to tap water,
Lean against the wall,
Stand on the floor,
Talk to any man,
Ask the shopkeeper
For some concession,
Interfere with entertainments
Of your child,
Interrupt your wife
When she is chatting
For July is burning,
For no drizzle,
Though the sky is overcas.

A posthumous letter came today:
My Dear Brother Fran;
I assume it began;
Your Loving Brother Sean.
It ends.
I'll never read those lines;
I know what's down between his lines;
His words and thoughts would break me.
His ink would stain my hands;
Leached through lines with real tears,
Dropping like time's sands.

He'd wax on our youthful days,
Wane on years we let slip past;
I don't need to read the words,
You know all things must pass.

I'll not sit to read his letter.

I'll recall how we were before,
When he was six and I was four,
Skating on the basement floor,
Or sliding down the new clothes line,
As pennants waving in the wind.

He taught me much of what he knew,
Just doing what big brothers do.
And always had my back.

I don't recall, but I'm pretty sure
We had our dumb-*** quarrels;
But I remember hitting *****,
Kicking, catching, throwing curves,
Rackets, sticks, clubs and bats,
Our cruel crew cuts beneath our hats.

He raised my game in everything;
Said I could do anything.
I'll remember his glance in the mirror
Going out the door.

If I ever read that letter,
I surely would regret forever,
Miss saying, I Love You too.

No, I'll never need to read his letter,
To remember Sean in his prime;
To recall the days when we two shined.

Lace the blades, Sean.
I'll be fine.

We're unhappy with what we're
But we don't want to be happy
By being what we may be

Reading novels
Is an adventurous journey through the road of mind

It's too wisdom
To iron out
Why you are failing
To do good deeds
As per your knowledge

You cannot satisfy everyone by doing that you thought was enough to do
But you can satisfy yourself by doing the same with pure dedication and honesty