I wore your sores
I rode your pain
I stood by your side-
Even in vain

I’d be here for you
Regardless of anything
Even when you took-
All of me for yours

I held your breath
When it was too heavy
I grew up in your shadow-
Of damage

Nothing you do can take the hurt
You had me learn
You had me live
You had me feel

I was born to fail
Since nothing I do
Was good for your appeal

How come every time
I try to leave it all behind,
Try to forget the pain,
The damage I've been through,
It always finds its way back to me?

It never lets me go.
Like I’m trapped in a cage,
With no way out,
No space to breathe —
But somehow, I’m still alive.

Every time I think I’ve moved on,
That I’ve finally healed,
It creeps back in,
Like a shadow I can’t run from.

It tightens around me,
Like invisible hands on my throat.
Not enough to end me,
Just enough to make me breathless.

And I wonder —
Will it ever let me go?

I was not raised by my sister's mother
Though the same woman raised she and me
I did not live with the same older brothers
Though we lived with the same older three

I was not cared for by the same father
As my sister had caring for her
The same person, he was, but I guess that's different
She had softness and I felt his burns.

I did not live in the same home as she
Though we both grew up on Fallow Street
I guess we're all changed by the parents we have
And more by the parents we meet

I did not have my sister's childhood
Hers seemed very soft to my eyes
While mine was a horror, tragic and bleak,
I fought very hard for my prize

My sister was raised in a different house
Different parents had she
We both grew up with the same people
But both had different families

As I got older, it took long to learn
That though we grew in the same mud,
My blood shared with her is thinner than water
For water is thicker than our blood.

And she just wanted a little sunshine
Among this obscence malodorous mud.
She just wanted to hide in sun rays
From this dirtiness, from this crud.

And she just wanted to be joyful.
She wanted to laugh but not in hysterics,
That rippling laughter would wink with a smile.
She wanted a gladness, and no mysteries.

She also wanted a lot of snow,
So white, so huge, with snow banks!
But you found nothing better than damage all!
Aren’t you people? There’s nothing sacred!

And she just wanted a little happiness.
You were so stingy, and she would have shared.
She didn’t have grunge for you, she didn’t have meanness…
At the beginning… Look, what you’ve achieved that!  

Look, what you’ve turned the angel into.
She walks without the sun through the mud.
She’s lost, but she isn’t humiliated.
Why have you done all that to her, my God?!

All that she wanted was little sunshine,
A little warmth and simple happiness.
And you thought that it was ****** and silly.
You tore her soul to pieces! You’re merciless!

Torn to shreads, appalled and pained,
She still walks because she’s alive.
And you keep on spill all with mud,
Without seeing her, burn up and deprive.

My poems, novels, and original music might be discovered by some alien civilization someday. Why do I express faith in aliens? My real-world people and other inhabitants of the planet are too self-absorbed.

I don't blame anyone. I can’t blame anyone. Who would I spare if I begin judging?

Strangers seem apathetic, but what have my people done for me? My former friends, colleagues and distant relatives all refuse to even read my free poems.

I have stopped expecting. What good would be a mechanical marriage be? If you can't admire my art and validate my efforts in life, why should I marry you?

If I were a rich kid to start with, I'd have hired a public relations manager. I'd pump millions to build my image. I'd have everyone read even my premium novels.

And then you'd have seen, I'd probably have been happy.

They have seen me smile a lot. I have a smiling face like my father. But is happiness all about smiling? Is it about killing my desire for validation and acceptance, for admiration and appreciation?

Why do I expect validation? Because they have invalidated my existence. They collectively considered me an inconsequential fool after I endured brain-damaging injuries in that coma-inducing, high-speed bike accident on May 7, 2010.

People are sadists. They are happy presuming negatives about me just because I survived that accident. I expected acceptance from her, but she was too self-absorbed for imparting such healing effects.

I shouldn't have agreed to get married to her. Why? She started avoiding me next day onwards. It's not like her work kept her busy. She had all the time for Instagram Reels. When I objected, she misbehaved further.

She called my art outdated. The injuries have healed almost completely. However, I can’t heal from the misgivings. And not just because of her. Even my colleagues, friends and relatives have invalidated my efforts to rise from the depths of depression.

They cited their busyness whenever I requested them to read my premium novels, or even experience my free poetry, or listen to my free music.

From her I expected validation and empathy, understanding and acceptance. But all she gave me was indifference and apathy. She should've understood my situation after more than a decade of social boycott I have faced due to my temporarily disabled state. And she's doing her course in special education, where teachers ought to inculcate the virtues of empathy and kindness. She didn't have any of it. She just reminded me of the apathetic society.

The society had suggested my parents to help me establish a roadside candy stall because they thought (or rather hoped) that I may never get back to normal life after such a major road accident. Their small minds made them presume that similar to Bollywood movies, I'd never completely return to a normal life. They even gave me the nickname of Ghajini after figuring out that I have the diagnosis of short-term memory loss.

I not only completed my pending B.Tech., but I also attained a postgraduate M.Tech. in Animal Biotechnology. They still judged me negatively. During the PhD course, they set up impediments. The obstacles they presented me with were both moral and systemic. I understood that they were not educated enough to help such special cases as me.

I'm professionally successful, and I have ample investments too. But I dearly required the world to read my novels and poems, and even listen to my free music back at that time. It'd validate my existence. However, now I figure out that I’m not ever going to be validated by anyone.

Now I feel hopeless about the future of the human society. For more than 15 years, I've been experiencing such ignorance. They didn't read even the novels I gifted to them, the thankless people.

I'm sorry to say, the society has disappointed me. They refused to give me an opportunity to prove that my worth is beyond the physical limitations after the cataclysmic accident.

Now I'm creating a dystopian future by writing predictive fiction. In my 2021-novel titled "Swansong: A Tribute?" I had accurately predicted the ongoing hostilities between Bhaarat and Pakistan.

Next, in the same novel, I predicted a China-centric World War in near future. They don't pay attention to my words. But I have a knack for predicting things.

Why should anyone pay attention to my words? Who am I?
I'm just a lucky survivor.

Some people are just born to fight,
I think.

...

It's not that they're born brave,
Nor that they're born strong.
But that the universe has decided that this one,
This being will have grit
And fire
And steel in their blood.

And it shall be tested,
This cosmic mettle of theirs.
They'll face trial after trial,
be broken and damaged in countless ways.

But this one was born to fight.
Maybe it's not the life they would have chosen,
For maybe they'd love to lay down their arms.

Yet they were born to fight
For the weak.
It's what they know.
It's what they do best.
It's all they can do.

There once was a fella from Maine
Who added some drugs to his brain:
     He lost half his mind,
     And the half left behind
Was totally ******* insane.

"let someone in" their voice rang though my head.
flashbacks of how my soul died replayed over and over and over again through the fog of my memory.
they meant it so innocently, but he was so innocent when I let him in.
my arms were wide open, I told him to make himself comfortable when he entered the depths of my heart.
and god, did he.
his shoes were muddy but I didn't even notice, his smile distracting me.
he opened my books on the shelf of memories, leaving them scattered all over the place.... his smooth beautiful lies consuming my mind to a point where I didn't care what he did.
I let him trapse through my deepest secrets, my most intense thoughts, while he sat there and smiled saying how he loved me.
why did I have to believe him?
he laced his words with so much truth it made my head spin,
he was bringing parts of me alive that had died so many years ago and I thought he'd stay.... but I also thought he loved me.
but before I could even blink he had ran out the door.
the door which used to have a wall built around it with a lock.
a wall that he broke down, and lock he somehow managed to get through.  
he was a storm that had ripped through my whole being, leaving me even more damaged than before.
but it's okay.... I'll just 'let someone in' again.

"Ill do that" she said

She was so always eager to please

But then quick to anger

"No worries I'll fix it"
She always said

In return she got a warm smile

"I'll babysit for the coming years"she said

"I'll be a listening ear" she said

"What do you need help with " she said

"Have you eaten " she said

"You sick we need a doctor" she said

Then her cup got empty

She couldn't pour anymore

Yet she felt guilty that
she couldn't give,

That she blamed them for it

Her path became thorny

In return she tortured herself

Became her worst nightmare

And then she met him

He promised her love beyond this realm

That she was the purest soul he has met

What she was,still is ,is a torture device designed specifically for her

She should be validated

And he would make her understand that

He became he refill

A therapist she could divulge her secrets to

But she forgot he was human

She forgot her touch was sinister

She tainted him too

And he threw that to her face

And she couldn't blame him,or them  for that

Because there is always more to the story

She might be her author

But what she paints,what she writes

Would never be the full story

Because even she alternates between being a victim in her story

But what stays more constant is she must be the villian in this story