Poetry

Neither he was afraid of being diluted, nor was he a shy
Amid his desperate space of words, his untainted imaginations tend to fly.
 
He was good at literature, but no-one ought to determine
Before he gets rid of that prejudice darkness, his thoughts lost its shine.      
 
He do not like his studies, neither able to handle its pressure
Every time he score less, he justify himself with his owing literary treasure.
 
But the people around wants him to swim, against his own thoughtful flow
And that unseen competitive stress around him, urging his naïve mind to blow.
 
He only loved his ragged notebook and nothing else ever amused him to thrill,
He dreamt of being a ‘Poet’, with his more than ordinary and unorthodox writing skills.
 
A part of world around him was deaf and a part of it is blind,
As neither they able to hear his music of words, nor his works being able to get a ‘find’
 
He sailed across in his own literary world, with the help of his imaginative oar’s thrust           
But he was always criticized and let separated, with that undue and abnormal disgust.
 
He sometimes felt lost but not at all bound to be defeated,  
But his uncertain thoughts always found to stand naked and emotionally untreated.
 
That conditional gap for him to fill was wide, but for others it appears to be thin
It is almost like separating himself, from his confused and restless innerself within.
 
Pressure to prove himself started building into his shriveled nerves and brain,
But he somehow convinced himself not to give up and not let out his thoughts to drain.
 
Thus, one day he decided to capture them all on a clean piece of paper
But his traumatic fear of ensuing failure, couldn’t allow those thoughts to let spur.
 
That evening was dreadfully silent, with no signs of air breeze
His face looks confusingly steady, as if he'll going to let himself freeze.
 
“Leave me alone…” is finally what he helplessly wrote,
On the last page of his poetry book, as a noiseless Suicide Note.
 
 
-unbound mohit