I’m sorry,
‘Cause I know you missed your family,
“Daddy didn’t call me, how can he?”
I know I didn’t behave normally,
Didn’t let anything settle properly,
I smothered and thought I did it soberly,
I needed you and you thought I just say formally,
But trust me just once call for me,
I’m here, only change is that I’m looking at the clock and not in every minute but hourly,
I’m not demanding you to fall for me,
Just asking for the sake of thing we’d in us enormously, and you chocked it and poked it in its eye and killed it purposely,
You were in your senses so please don’t say I did it instead and you just nodded Nervously.
I gave you my hand, no! Literally my hand,
But the proximity doesn’t allow me to reach you ’cause,
It was a hand, not a rubber band
to cross the line and, come to your end.
You’d put your hands on it and,
then in the next second, put it in your mouth up to the beta gland.
You chewed it and spit it out in narrower pieces than that of sand,
But the shattered pieces have found a way and they’ve now met each other at the shores to make a whole me again,
The pieces are still hugging each other like the two lost and found friends.
I happened to have experienced the things I write in,
Some happens before I start,
Some are still happening while I’m writing.
You often see the work I typed,
Not the one that I write.
Both are different and the latter is what I always liked,
Despite of the fact that it’s limited and it might remain always,
But that’s alright.
I use the literature as an aid,
I write in the styles I’ve made,
Would write until my breaths ditch me,
Or until my vision gets fade.
I’m truly happy with the image of me,
Not weak, always kicking and frustrating,
At least better than playing the victim’s card by making an emotional trade.
And two words for the games you feel I’ve a mastery in is that I, “never played!”
By Vish

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