Poem By Mohit Sharma
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 tried to determine
Before he gets rid of that prejudice shadows, his thoughts lost the 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 managed to sail his literary ocean, 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 defeated,
Mostly his stubborn thoughts found to stand naked and emotionally untreated.
That conditional gap to fill was wide, but for others it appears to be thin
For him, it's 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 the traumatic fear of ensuing failure, couldn't allow his thoughts to let spur.
That evening was dreadfully silent, with no signs of any air breeze
and his face looks confusingly steady, as if he'll going to let himself freeze.
"Leave me alone…" is finally something, what he helplessly able to wrote
On the half torn, last page of his poetry notebook, as a noiseless Suicide Note!