Imagine life to be a notebook and the pages to be the days,
when you read my tale!
I don’t know the number of pages on my notebook!
Maybe half the notebook is already filled.
Some pages are filled with
my life stories that I am proud of and
some pages with stories I am not so proud of.
I know that I can change not what I’ve already written,
but I do know that I can bring about a twist in the story,
steer around and change the direction;
And write the ****** that I would come to like.
Pals, believe me, we have the power to write our ******.

Sometimes, we think that the milieu our notebook is from,
decides all the chapters on the notebook.  
We presume that if the notebook had not seen sunshine
and had been confined to the cupboard,
then it will be impossible for the notebook
to survive the outside weather.
Survive the rough weather, believe me, it will.
Just going through it, experiencing the rough tides,
will change the course of the story,
making a history that will not be forgotten.

I hear there can be alternate timelines.
Maybe, someday, there will come into the world
a machine with a dial,
that will let us turn back pages
and overwrite what we’ve already written.
Till then,
write great stories on each page
that wipes away the bitterness on the previous pages.

Each day was like a ride on the slowest vehicle on Earth,
Each day was filled with an emptiness,
Each day brimmed with  melodrama,
Each day started with the thought of the day end and
Each day ended just like the doodle on magic slate that got erased,
When you have so much to share, so much to give,
and when people around you just take all,
you lose the tinge of hope that there is a
possibility of indestructible love in life,
where there is no giving and taking but sharing,
But there came a day, when everything changed.
I met the people who mean the life to me,
just when the sun was setting.
Each day from then on begins with the Sun rising all so bright,
extending the radiance, so warm that the entire day gets lightened.
Each evening we meet and the long strolls we take and
Each minute we spend together leaves
an indelible imprint on my memory forever to cherish.
Each step we take is like the luminous steps of enlightened people.
With each step, there  is a new path down the earth,
where the sorrows of each get buried down deep, forgotten
and replaced with a desire to face the tribulations of life.
I still vividly remember the magical evening we all met.
For the first time,
When you are shown the beauty of the evening star,
When you are shown the change in the orientation of stars,
When you are shown the beauty of the world around you and
when you see your buddy treat a dog that passes by like a comrade,
you just cannot help falling in love with life.
When you realize that your ideas of unbreakable trust and love,
which you had started to doubt because of some misplaced trust,
could be all be true, it is a miracle.
It was a surprise to me when words that were dear to me,
words that I had not spilt before, were spilt freely.
From the beginning, it felt like we all belonged together,
sharing a bond that cannot be broken by time or any force.
When you have found friends for whom
you would not even hesitate to lay down your life,
there is a new found freedom and a gleeful feeling.
I feel like like I have sprouted wings,
perpetually free to fly because
even in our greatest despairs,
we will stand together as one family.

In her early twenties,
is a young woman,
flying high, exploring the world.
She is highly successful,
and has all the things
that anybody could ever want
in the eyes of people around her.
Just like a kite,
she flies around,
exploring the boundaries,
testing the boundaries,
experiencing both flight and downfall.
Wait a sec!
Her semblance to an airplane,
is far greater than to a kite,
for she lifts people up with her,
just like the plane.
When she finds a person,
drowning in misery,
she listens patiently
to their every whim,
and gives a different view,
sharing a part of her own life story,
giving a piece of herself,
so they can change and sour high,
befriending them all.
Her circle of friends grows
bigger and bigger everyday.
Though her love for all remain unchanged,
she forgets the names of some,
after all she isn’t a memory machine.
Now when so many love her for all she is,
she is surrounded by hungry, envious foxes,
ready to claim all that is hers,
wishing to be all that she is,
trying to paint her beautiful days black.
All around her,
she can smell the aroma of
jealousy and greed of the foxes in air.
Wherever she sets a foot,
whatever dreams she has,
the foxes try to put on her shoes,
invading her private life.
They claw at her every day,
piercing her mind with mindless questions.
Every 10 steps she takes,
there is a fox waiting,
bombarding her with questions.
As wary as she is,
she still shows them the path
and answers their questions.
There are some obnoxious foxes,
who demand that she gives answers then and there.
She merely says she has already told
the story so many times that day,
some other time perhaps.
To which some obnoxious foxes keep nagging
and finally say,
“But you WILL HAVE to tell one day!”
The foxes, somehow, seem to think,
it is their birthright to know
everything that she does,
every footstep she takes,
every new art she learns.
Luckily when she was attacked everyday,
when she had forgotten the bliss of life,
when she was dying every day,
when she was on the edge of losing herself,
she by the gift of lord,
met a bunch of people, shining with brilliance,
who showed her the beauty of life.
They taught her to live and give again.
She was like a child seeing the stars for the first time.
Everything they showed her felt like a miracle.
She, for the first time, knew
what it was like to have friends,
who never let her down.
Even though,
the foxes still remain sly,
she has a way of swerving around,
not giving in to the butterfly effect.
The foxes’ attempts to color her days
black remain an unfulfilled dream.

A bright, blinding light glows
Above me with brilliance,
Contrasting the ambiance.
My eyes are fixed on the hospital room's ceiling,
While my ****** expressions change.
I see instruments used on me.
I let wave after wave of pain
Wash through me
And wait for the agony to subdue.
Sadly, hitherto, there is no distraction of any kind
That makes me forget the unbearable pain.
At the moment of utter helplessness,
The lines of my poem
Come to my rescue,
The words slowly taking birth,
Take my mind off agony.
I think of ways to describe
The hell I’m going through,
Knowing only too well
That I might not be the best person
To paint the picture.
Yet, here is my attempt!
I have the mad desire,
Raging through me,
To somehow leave my body,
Take my soul with me
And run away from the room.
I just wish I had the powers of Doctor Strange,
So I could escape into another realm,
Where I can have peace,
Where there is no pain.
Lying down there,
I secretly wish for death to take me,
Which I believe is sweeter
Than the inescapable torture
I face as a patient.
But that would make me selfish,
For I would leave my people,
The people who love me,
With a void that cannot be filled.
So, I wait patiently for my term
As a patient to come to an end.
And while I wait for the end,
I am writing this.

I am envisioning a world of bots,
pulling us into the black hole
of innovation and technology,
with no trees, no schools, no collages,
nothing that is bricks and mortar.
Can you envisage a life on man-made oxygen?  
Can you imagine the fantasy world
in movies becoming our real world?
I'm being ingenuously curious,
how long before
a plethora of machines and bots,
a metallic universe created by man,
replaces everything we have lived for?
A few more countable years perhaps.
Just the thought sets me off in trepidation.
I wish to somehow freeze and slowdown
the evolving era so the living flesh and blood
could be prepared for what they are about to face.

What can be sharper than any weapon?
Words?  Yes, words,
that can deport us to the hell of heaven,
which 'fcourse is worse than hell
for  it is hell in the guise of heaven,
which sets us flying high for one moment,
to be brought back down the next moment,
with the next onset of words,
when reality and truth dawns on us,
clearing off the mist in the mind.
Now while all are wondering
what in the world I am talking about,
let me tell you,
I speak of hypocrites,
I speak of those who 'think' they are witty,
who 'think' they have words flashing
across their brain,
at their beck and call,
who are painstakingly careful to plunge their
weapon coated with superficial assurance,
only to deceive straight thinkers,
And push them into the world of misery,
'N to give themselves a little tap on the shoulder,
when they succeed.
Whoa! A heartfelt success of a hypocrite!
Now I wonder in total bewilderment,
why they are exceptionally elated,
when they speak pleasing words
just before their haughty, nasty blows.
Should we call them witty
for not realizing that the person in front,
might as well be capable of such harm,
had they not considered the feelings of others?
When I see  one such hypocrite,
I have a burning desire to retaliate,
but react nonchalantly,
for I know better than to be a hypocrite.