RAWMAZING

  Life is simple, It's people who feel like pimples. No one wants to allow negativity to surround, But this is what we find digging deep down. The complexity is not in the brain, But some chord showers the thoughts' rain. Expressing seems an impossible mission, Because people's expression digs a grave called depression. Injury is not always denoted by bleeding, Sometimes it's people's comment feeding. Some feelings we can't unfollow, And thoughts belong to that mellow. Pack your existence sack, Before people throw us like a garbage bag. Peace can become a long-lasting cologne, But for that we have to be our own clown.

Today, a diary grabbed my attention. The author named it 'Your lost destination'. Flipping its pages, I reached down memory lane. With every flip, I explored a new window pane. Wondering for some lethargic hours, I noticed a child without any scars. I went to that child to have a true contentment's view, But the child I met left me in a mesmerized hue. "Come with me," I pleaded, heart full of zeal, Together, we'd uncover what's real. To which I got a reply with a sigh, "Ahh! The place where you currently reside, there, I am the most misunderstood guy." Well, that child was no one but me, And I left her there as that was the only space I have lived in without agony.

एक क़ासिद रवाना किया है तुझे ऐ खुदा | कुछ हिसाब है, जो बेहिसाब है। कुछ टूटे धागे हैं, जिनके जख्म अभी भी ताज़े हैं। कुछ शिकवे हैं, जो अपनों से मिले, इसलिए तजुर्बे के तोहफ़े हैं। कुछ इक़्तियार हैं, जो बड़े ही बेकार हैं। कुछ चेहरे हैं, जिन पर पड़े शराफ़त के पर्दे हैं। कुछ धोके हैं, जो फ़िक्र के नाम से दामन में लोगों ने बाँधे हैं। कुछ बेईमानों के क़र्ज़े हैं, जो तेरे हवाले हम करते हैं। गुफ़्तगू होगी जब तेरे शहर में, उस दिन का इंतज़ार हम करते हैं।

Standing on the verge of the first inning, While the other is about to begin. Confused about which memory to pluck,  But my trunk is already filled with bad luck. Want to wait for the door of happiness to open, But the stool of forbearance is broken. The wardrobe of hopes is jammed tight, The folder of delight is kept at a height.  I also lost the key to my blissful locker, Where I used to hide my inside joker.   The extinguished lamp is lying on the side table,  Personifying how much I'm disabled. A luxurious vase is kept, but it's not stable, Just like people's emotions that wobble. The table where I used to get dressed, Now looking at the mirror I only feel depressed. The places that used to hold delight, Are full of meaningless fights. Just sitting & counting each breath, Eventually, I'm becoming a dried well, which will be valued, when I'll be embraced by death.

  Feeling like a most used Dustbin, That is full of agony's pin. People come running, But, just to throw in their thinking. But repercussions of their reactions?!! No one visits to see its dilapidated condition. Standing at the same place, Waiting for someone to empty the trash that it contains. No one will come, to change its fate. Because no one wants to be its loyal mate. Visitors will keep coming to throw, Because no one owns empathy to borrow. Still, this dustbin will smile and accept every difficulty, Because at least it is the one for people to throw away their cups of sorrow's tea.

  Holding precious merchandise, The skull is the designation of the device. The material stuffed in it is specialized. Designed by God for using by being wise. Unfortunately, the device and being wise are at the rage. Too much good cannot reside in the same cage. More bad with a pretentious tinch of good gravitates.  When it comes to being vicious, the cerebrum accelerates. But exceptions are part of life, And in that hemisphere, some brains lie. Why are thoughts so difficult to magnify? Why is it so tough to be vocal when situations require? More than a brain it's a bowl full of doubt. Numerous deadly combinations keep on popping out. Why can’t people follow God's system layout?  By pulling the pessimist cut-out.

In this 23 year-long venture. What I have attained is a bucket full of ruptures. Those who ruled my heart. Have broken it beautifully with their art. No one exists on whom I can rely. And I always fail badly whenever I try. Even if I want to, people show me why I shouldn't embark. And all I am left with is the excruciating remark. Took some pills, To yield some vicious skills. Striving hard to learn the lessons on hatred. But this stupid mind ruled by the heart is dumb at these trades. At times I question my very own soul, Why do I even exist in a world full of assholes? Might be the peculiarities I owe are either too expensive or so cheap, That people don't even want to peep. Looking for the destination which is meant only for me. Hope that place and loving loyal heart exist in this world and not posthumously in my destiny.

  Suppressed emotions lying in the draft. Well, spilling out everything is not an impossible craft. Just looking for the one who has the comprehension skills. Or else every emotion will be churned in the misery mills. But the thought, who will hit the context right?  Has made my lips sealed tight. The letter is jotted precisely. But before opening it I have to think wisely. Readers are in a plethora who are well versed. But the incorrect interpretation will make the situation adverse. The array of worse always prevail, And the place called misunderstood from where I hail. Understanding is not the job of a creative, But just requires a modest weapon, titled initiative.  Being judgemental is an effortless art. Which always lies in the shopping cart.

After so long I accumulated the courage to drive. For which I needed a vehicle, so I went to buy. The model of motivation was the most trendy, But loaded with responsibility which made it too heavy. Further, I moved towards a replica of loyalty, And was about to purchase but its engine was not warranted. Moving ahead a model grappled my sight. I ran towards it to scrutinize, It was polished with hope, Handles were made of trust which won't rust, And tires were embellished with love, And above all the engine was the brand of harmony, My eyes were dazzled, And to own it I was being frazzled. Anyhow, I was able to buy, But now my dreams are on the standby.

I tried to make a humble pie. For which few ingredients were important to buy. Holding my bag I went on singing a melody, I crossed a store which had a discount on everything you buy. I inquired with Mr. Shopkeeper about the ingredients I desire. He said, "It's a huge box with maximum discounts but these will cost you plenty". But as it's a human tendency, Things we get for free are more special than a hard-earned spent penny. I brought that box along with me happily. As I started making my pie. To a bowl, I added some flour of solace, But it was a brand of agony. To give a good rise I added some yeast of compassion, But its maker was animosity. To maintain its consistency, I added more sugar of joy, But it turned out to be a product of melancholy. To give a good finishing glaze, I topped it with sprinkles of equanimity, But its producer was unconformity. The outcome of, my not so humble pie, Made me realize, That discount comes at a very high price.

Well, after years I have written a letter to post, Searching for the right post office's door, So that it reaches the right person who owns. But, I fear to drop this letter which I adore, Because those are not just words, But are emotions which I hold. What if the postman didn't find the way to that shore? What if my letter lost its destination, To its horizon? What if my letter will be too late to reach its actual owner’s meathooks?    What if I'll only be waiting for the postman with my reply to knock on the door? Because along with that person the posting address is also incognito.

  Trapped in a bier of expectations. It might look attractive because of its decoration. The pretty white lace of smile, Hiding the years-long tears, of being docile. Beautiful pink flowers of charm, Providing shed to mental harm. Sparkling salmon petals of lies, Are perfect for sadness’s disguise. Few  white buds of satisfaction, To cover the missing compassion. Lots of greens of grace, To veil the shattered peace. Some flamingo laces of being content, Shielding always attained disappointments. Glossy peach silk of relief, Aiding perfectly the deep-rooted grief. Few drops of gratitude’s spray, To blow off the misery. The decor is getting grand and alluring, And so is the increasing suffering.

  Carrying a book full of tragic stories. People pretend to read but they are mysterious theories. No one tries to read the whole chapter but is only interested in judging with glory. Carrying a book full of tragic stories. Its cover is painted with colors of ecstasy, But the irony is its misery. Carrying a book full of tragic stories. Deciphering the open book seems so easy, But the pages missing in that is no one’s worry, Because people like reading happy short stories.   Carrying a book full of tragic stories. Some shattered dreams might look shabby. Some chapters will make you screwy, But understand that the situation was so frenzied. Carrying a book full of tragic stories. Nothing is hidden deliberately. Just waiting for a good reader to read it willingly, And understand its unsaid dreadful summary.   Carrying a book full of tragic stories. One day I’ll write a chapter so peppy, Just waiting for someone to be the bookshelf, full of empathy.

Looking back at the person I was, I waved to that human I have lost. The huge orb of fire I encompass, Fiery so much that people fear to grasp. A plethora of blotches I have sustained. Regularly a few more are added,  But I have a skirmish spirit and survived. Earlier I was scared with this fire I possessed, But blemishes are essential, the time suggests. To shine like the sun it's important to get burned. Because shackles are not easily detached. Something has to be paid to own a reward, Deeds are counted before you are crowned, And win the shining potent sword.

       Standing still with that constant smile is the actual hustle. Holding emotions tending to hide that aching heart muscle. Moments of joy are unapproachable, But to make everything look all right, it's important to have some smiles to drizzle. Feelings are churned every then and now because that's the way of living. No matter how hard you try, you are born to bear the slagging. One who promises to stay seems to elope. Hearts are safe, closed in a sealed envelope. Running behind to capture one happy moment to survive, But this is the uphill long drive. Theories are in abundance which one to pertain, After some time all of it is not enough to sustain. Cry behind that smile will always prevail, Someone will understand is the expectation that always fails.

Hope if Hogwarts School was a reality!! Life would have been full of exuberant fantasy. All the masquerades would have temporarily vanished by just saying "Stupefy". Lumous would have luminated the facades from our site effortlessly. Expelliramus would have saved us to get rid of brutal judges hired by our law of society.  Expecto patronum would have guided us about how to free ourselves from demons which are so scary. Alohomora would have unlocked the happy door. Obliviate would have been a saver for all to get rid of the past chords. Hope if Hogwarts School was a reality!! Albus Dumbledore would have been the one I have adored. Being around Sirius Black would have been a delight he would have saved me from all the plights. Hagrid was the cutest of all, an enormous man with an ego so small. The sorting hat would have made things seem more sorted. Severus Snape was a man full of mystery but he was the hero; this is the biggest history. The irony is, Voldemort with assortments...