Would you read the poem I wrote for you?

Have you ever had one of those days when you felt too fake to do anything important? When the entire world seemed like an endless barrage of misguided lifestyle choices. When there was not a moment of respite from the madness of job, work and the need to excel. Sure, I do want to excel. Believing otherwise would be a great blasphemy. How could I possibly not have ambition? And even if I didn’t, how could I justify it and propagate the lack thereof, as an ideal? Well, I am just saying haven’t you had one of those days, when nothing seems important enough to get out of the bed for. When the endless blaring of movies, music and news just annoys instead of keeping you entertained or at least fixated. Haven’t you ever had one of those days when you felt restricted in concentrating. When the lack of focus seemed like an opportunity. An opportunity for what you say? Well, in this case, an opportunity to write a poem may be. No, it’s not a love poem, it’s not even a poem about world problems or personal problems. I think it’s a poem about being young at a time that really matters and nothing more. Let’s see how it goes.


I speak of the monsters in my backyard,

Their names unknown and their skins unseen,

Only in the spring they came out to play,

Only in the spring did they care to say,

“What of the dreams that haunt us,

And what of the thoughts that bleed?”




I speak of the fires these monsters lit,

The monotony they burnt had no heat, no ash,

I speak of the the hearts they broke,

The conventions they broke, the lies they told,


I talk of the brave among them,

Growing up earlier than they were supposed to;

And what of the wisest among them,

Who cared for those who had no one else to.


And then the ones with mischief on their minds spoke,

And spoke of rebellion and delinquency and vandalism,

Of drugs, of the riches to be had, of the churches to be burnt,

the devils who smirked at the jeering and the mutiny.


I speak of the ones who gave their lives for causes and other men,

Men who were to guide us, Causes meant to be our salvation.

I speak of the ones who lived in ignominy and fear,

Of the things they had done, the ghosts of their creation.


When you asked me where are these monsters and who were they,

I can do nothing but come up short, for you were one of them,

One among the multitude that shone in brilliant light,

Until they were exhausted of the thing we called life.


They may come back someday, at least I hope they do,

To haunt us, to show us the mistake of our ways,

To lead us and to light the spark of life.

I speak of the monsters in my backyard,

A breeding ground for the young and new.”




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