My definition of what it means to be "human.:" :The ability to laugh at myself.

Four stacks spaced out,
The biggest with waves of curtains
The third with books,
The fourth had my shoes.
The top most out of my reach.
My father and brother
Would stack them in
But I climbed on a chair
And threw some covers in.

That same chair
Black with wheels
My father thought I will study in
Ran over my right foot
Last my sister was here.
As she examined it, I learnt
My sister had finally become
The woman she studied for.
The chair now nurses a few ***** laundry.

Last evening my right foot
Became useless
When I stubbed my left
On the corner of the bed
I laughed at the irony
That I had no perfect foot
To compare the new acquired deformity.
I rubbed some ice
And decided to not speak of my injuries.

The first injury I flaunted here
Was from unwrapping a new knife,
My father realized then
That probably I won't make it alone.
So he then cut off pieces
Of papers and cloth
To place in the closet.
I received in total six major cuts.
The last closet, I arranged by my myself.

The other room in this new house
Made some funny noises,
I checked it out myself
And spoke to my mother after
But I didn't mention it to her.
She doesn't call me in the mornings
To wake me up now,
My father waits till it's eleven,
And my sister during her drive to work.

I start conversations with my brother now,
I see the words we speak same,
And he asks of me.
I have a friend too
I confessed love for
And he did too.
And I am happy,
I declare, I sing.
Yet I have tears on my cheeks.

I do not understand this
I am getting everything
I fought for.
And having it all
I can't help but anticipate
The day it will all be taken away.
Why do I realize now
That happiness isn't real
Only the yearning of the same is.

All that swims unruly
only crashes into rock.
Wearing down the stoic
demeanour the beholder.

He wails in silence -
his thoughts loud
but his voice shackled.

He buckles;
Then clutches at his
breast knowing he’ll
meet his end with
his tale only told in
illegible runes.

Sing me a song.
Sing of days of folly.
Sing it sad...
Sing it as it is.
Sing its story.

Extend each syllable
into mournful vibratos.
Drown the
crests of choruses
with wrenching falsettos.

Let it be soft...
But sharp as a knife is keen.
Let it reach into my chest.
And grab at the lull in between.

So sing me a song.
Sing to me how I failed.
Serve me my sadness.
Sing to me...
My tale.

With a letter to my love,
Flies away my pet dove,
Unbiased by what it contains,
Or by the ink blots and stains,
Concerned only of her kin,
Lest she be doomed to a bin.

So is my lover and I,
As we stare up at the night sky,
No wall nor vault can keep us apart,
Live only to love, until you depart.

Live for me, you may say,
But not one day will I lay,
Alone sans your sweet embrace,
I, your steps shall retrace,
And live and love you till eternity,
Ends its days of bliss serenity.