Life

Life,

Out of nothing it starts,

And into nothing it ends.

It gifts you with pleasure,

And with scars,

Which never mend.

A merchant of Time,

That borrows, but never lends.

Keeping you enthralled,

Through its ups and downs,

Straight lines and bends.

A journey which means –

Everything and nothing.

Where nothing ever changes,

But where everything is decided by trends.

Through thick and through thin,

Its lessons it sends.

A pain-staking exercise,

Taught by both enemies and friends.

Life, out of nothing it starts,

And into nothing it ends.

 

Poor Me

Love comes at a hefty price, for me,

A fee that I’m unable to pay.

That’s why I’m loveless, you see,

Since the wealth of self-worth, never came my way. 

I cannot afford love – it’s true,

And I’m deprived in this regard.

I so wish to amass the adequate amount due,

So that, from this commodity, I will no longer be barred.

Sometimes, I still search for someone, to hand it out for free,

And to understand that I lack the courage needed for this transaction.

But, if anything, I’m probably overlooked for my poverty,

Thus, I remain alone, still searching for comfort; satisfaction.

 

Love me?

I cannot say… ‘I love you’,

No, to this I will not confess.

Since, I don’t know if those words are true.

How can I say it, and mean it,

When I know I’m not good enough for you?

So, these words cannot be used unless,

I’m convinced that you love me too.

 

Messages of the Marooned II

On a chilly, winter evening,

I kindled a fire to keep me warm,

And as I gazed upon the horizon,

I noticed the approach of yet another storm.

Then, it finally dawned on me, like it should have long before,

That the chance of being found on this island is never more.

Thus I extracted from my breast pocket, her picture, once more,

Realizing that I can no longer keep ajar Hope’s door,

So I stared at her face longingly, for the final time,

And then I finally tossed her image into the smouldering fire,

Burning with it her memory, and my Freedom’s desire.

Average

There’s something I want to confess,

Something I need to get off of my chest,

It’s, that all I ever wanted was to feel as good as the rest,

Not to feel greater, or worthier or even the best,

But just to feel on par with them, would make me feel blessed.

And to feel this way seems like it’s become my life’s quest,

To the point that I may well have become obsessed,

In trying to feel like I’m on par with the rest.

This seems to have unwittingly made life a contest,

And since it’s a competition I won’t win, I’ve become depressed,

But I’m bound by the fear of rejection to always invest,

In the pursuit of proving that I’m equal, and not less.

In this regard I’ve sacrificed much, but to no success.

In this pursuit I’ve pushed myself much, but made little progress.

Odd fellow

As I rested my head on my pillow,

My head was filled with hopes of a better tomorrow,

But as I woke, I only felt a recurring sorrow,

A lurking gloom, leaving me feeling hollow.

A lasting regret, a bitter pill to swallow,

To know that I can be described as yellow,

A fretful being, never known to be mellow,

And to live with the stigma of being an odd fellow.