Counting every breath inhaled,
pink, warm skin, turns cold, white paled,
the pang of pain in the chest,
as if a nerve heartlessly pulled,
ears screeching high,
as if a black board nailed,
steps trembling, even if not high,
dreams all seem a mere lie,
even words seem incapable
of describing the pain,
wanting a chance to go back
and take birth again,
wanting to give up
the hopes on my self,
the only thing that resists
is my own old self,
the only one who cares is the own old me,
holding my hands, not letting me flee,
the warrior whom i promised to be a great person someday,
the same warrior is holding my hand to make my way,
this is what soldiers do,
they fight till their last breath,
they fight and never give up,
until taken away by death,
HE who I always thought myself to be a rebirth of,
HE who was warrior,
HE who was unbeatable,
HE who was everyone's saviour,
HE never gave up on field,
so why should I?
taken away by death and not by enemy,
and so will I,
I will fight,
until my last breath,
I will fight and never give up,
until taken away by death,
I am the reincarnation i thought myself to be,
I am the warrior,
I am the unbeatable,
I am the saviour,
I had never given up on field,
and so again will I,
taken away again by death and not the enemy,
I will rest again in the sky,
like HE said, today is so not worth to let the enemy kill me,
like HE said today is so not worth dying.
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Thoughts of a Juvenile
PoetryWords are sharper than knife they say. Yes it is true. Some perfectly moulded good words can both make and break a heart easily. A poem is a group of such perfectly moulded words given wings to fly. They fly through the mind and heart easily. A hob...
