Why does the happy look sad?
Why does every good, end as bad?
The woods that day, didn't know I was coming.
The winds welcomed me with their silent humming.
Why does the gloomy song repeat?
Why did the holding hand retreat?
The skies watched, as I walked alone.
The torch in my hand died, as I walked into unknown.
Why did the eyes that seek help,
are dry with no yelp?
The moon was burning,
my insides were churning.
Why was my heart clueless?
Where was all the assertiveness?
The waters below craved me.
One look at them, enslaved me.
Why did the time not stop?
Why is there always a flop?
The trees screamed at me to jump.
I swallowed a lump.
Why is my every memory hazy?
Am I crazy?
I dived, in the massive flow.
How to swim? I don't know.
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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...
