Going through my old notebook.
Page by page,
Line by line,
I found phrases I wrote for you —
Raw but true.
Some lines, which even today,
Brought me back to my rue.

My book was pointing towards
An unsung outcry,
Asking me questions — unsolved,
Poking me to answer: “The why?
Hey! Give it a try!”

I found some paragraphs — meaningless.
They have just lost their tenderness.
Stories of my loved adversaries,
Poems about my daunting memories.

They say my book is petrifying,
For it has some pages with moments —
Electrifying.
It still has some pages empty,
Yellow and old,
Stating and defining my dreams —
The stories that remained untold.