I'm afraid,
afraid of something
something that feels like
tailing me,
but don't, don't
don't mistaken this
it doesn't follow me
neither haunts me,
out of necessity
it reflects of something
when I looked upon
the troubled water
from the unending bridge.

It hits me,
like a hanging skin being stitched.

To know whether you are strong
or not,
break, break and
break everything
that you have
into bits and pieces.

Only then
you will know
whether you
deserve to be here,
or you should just
cease to exist.

Well, we are all going to diminish, eventually.

After all,
we are made from
nothing else but
bits and pieces
either it is
a dream
that you nurture
all this time or
a trait
that you pick up
from others or
a move
that you steal
from a movie.

Break it
for its strength
and invincibility
it will still survive
and kick everything
into life.

A puzzle
would never be
complete
on its own.

It is great. It lasts forever.
It trumps life. It persuades time in no time.
It is full of uncertainties. It is an adventure.
It concludes everything. It is our home.

Denying its greatness
will only
make your own
looks like a desperate attempt
in asking for forgiveness.

I want to return
I want to give back
all the good things
I do not want to perish
in the broad daylight
I do not want to wilt
in the coldest night
and in doing so
I need this life,
I mean it this time
I do,

I really do.

Things deteriorated
at an alarmingly rate
and we are set
for another horrendous spate.

But this is our time,
there's no such thing as fate
and you always know,
that nothing is ever
too late.

So you thought
that you can run
away,
escape from
all the misery
pain
and tragedy.

You give your best
you try
every option
of escapism
that available
upon you,
you thought
everything will
disappear
once you move away
from the place
that you stand.

But,
you are wrong
those things
won't simply
go away.

Never.

There is no
calmness
and happiness
in poetry
those things won't
just fit in.
All that's left
in this
is madness
emptiness
and hopelessness.

When Socrates
said in Phaedrus
that poetry
is a form of
madness,
he must
have encountered
a truly, beautiful
mess.