Ashutosh

As his blood thins by the day,

His words desert him,

Tired of the long thirty odd years,

His chances are slim.

A man lonelier, I have never seen,

He is like fungi, on shit he has grown.

Fuck lovers and friends,

Even a family he has never known.

How do I comfort him?

I am a tough dog now, I don’t cry.

I wish I could showcase his life for him.

But let it be. Let the poor man die.

Fantasies, a poet can’t live by,

I wouldn’t bother asking why.

Can’t help free people acting shy,

Some people don’t get to say goodbye.

She

The canvas I wished to paint,

Eternal love, Lived by a mortal.

The world says will be forever incomplete,

Doubts have bugged me too, sans the bottle.

I hate why stories last so long,

Let one of them die, write them a song.

The protagonists however manage to live,

 And bring irrelevant characters along.

But I really hope that you live,

And I too manage to beat time.

And if not now, if not in this world,

Someday, somewhere, you shall be mine.

Till then, we breathe.

Mediocrity

For a major part of my life,

I have cursed my luck.

I let her be the bitch she was,

And never gave a fuck.

Now, in the hindsight, I see,

She was always with me.

No matter how I screwed up in life,

She would get me to where I needed to be.

All I had to do, was to go with the flow,

But the skeptical me, would just wait.

Have I not done things I was supposed to do? Of course.

But always, below expectation and too late.

Epics

Romanticism, is what this poet lives by.
Not read a single love epic- Have often asked myself why.

Would not have let myself get influenced,
By a story lived or imagined by someone else.

Is it not for the soul, to find and live its own love?
To each, its own- Unique is the experience.

Have I not loved the way one is supposed to love ?
Have I not lived my own epic?

If there is a God up there,
I will let him testify; he can take his time.