sentiment

On a lonesome street on a monday morning
An appartment room of a single accommodation
Found a young man of about thirty
Dead, wrapped in sheets of sheer agony.
For the ambiance of the place was such
The shattered crockery at a nearby distance
Walls painted with unambitious designs
Screaming the state of mind of a ‘sane’ meadow.
In no time mourners shall arrive
The mechnical hands of some anonymous dream
Working aimlessly and sexually insane
A mere irony to the young man’s game.
His cause of death is uncertain
But as one might be so logical enough to realise
Overpowering stress and underwhelming satisfaction
Has made many lives accustomed to death.
Do you have a purpose in life?
Yoing boys like you should go all the way out
Running, shinning, dreaming the big picture
But what if the canvas holds shy of my unusual nature.
I am a mere character in His mysteries
A mere unit of the production gone wrong
The world that is the assembly line
Would only but replace the sad life.

I feel my memory
And sometimes it reminds me of when I was happy,
Days when bright sun lit my little world,
Away from this web I have weaved,
As sick as I’m today, I am bound to be.
I made certain decisions that I must take blame of,
The dirt that is crazy,drags me.
I feel her sound,
Little noises she made,
Irritating as it was back then,
I miss it today. Maybe we are to blame
For what we do, and take that blame with us for our rage.
Perhaps I may wake up tomorrow,
In someplace I am not aware of
And in that place,
calm as I could be or even fatal-
Who knows?
I feel my nerves and they are screaming,
Wake up from the grave, wake up!
And even though I am stunned,
I realise how far I left it behind;
A heart that bled,
A face that wept,
And a life that I lived.
And now that I am gone,
I miss being alive.
P.s. don’t say a word.