To a man, who suffered endless trauma to feed his sons needs
And exhausted his youth, to make his child --a better person
He spent most of his life alone
living in a shell of those box rooms--the smell of it dwells in his flesh; he goes there only to rest
often he wonder alone, he has forgotten those old lanes of love
it smells like a bygone dream
he only love in his imagination now, but bitter
reality keeps him in check
and his escape is only in his mind
he has seen all, felt all; and perhaps too much
even when he wants; he continues to be
letting the deep wave of life drown his presence
to swallow his mind, and brutality of life overcome him

And to that woman, who bears this separation and the dream of harmony
in her wild, warm breath
she quietly gives in her dream, to her social and emotional desires
compromising on her own happiness---to have her daughters happiness
her world revolves her little one, telling her stories of joys and the wonders of world out there
to protect her, from all the agony of life..

while i write this in my journal
i feel this strange ache in me, running like a cold yet shivering wave gushing
suffocating within its four chamber, time again and again
had made me realize, that just sometimes
'nothing is enough'
it crackles within, to embrace all this within, and this little heart
has gave up on me
in this journey of dreaming, capturing the wonders of the world
made my heart a little more weak..

and just now, when i write all this
i think of everyone, who once i had and lost
and to everyone, who i shared countless memories with
but what all those memories are for
even all this--i know, made and reshape me into a better person
within this better person, beats a little heart
that has gone weak.