RAWMAZING

  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.