By Shruti Raypa
Where, when, how?
Why, what, why now?
Endless questions,
No answers to follow.
Mindless interjections,
In a life that feels hollow.
An urge to dodge every question
With a superficial hope for a sunny tomorrow.
And I’ll definitely not forget to mention
The guilty pleasure from ice creams I borrow.
Well, is it fair to feel this way,
When I know every human has his own war?
A tougher one indeed,
Such that mine would look like a child’s play.
Am I being narcissistic?
Should I quit feeling this way?
Even smokers have a method with nicotine tablets, I guess,
And drug addicts seem to be doing better.
But what is this “cycle of QUESTIONS”
That I am finding hard—harder—to letter?
If you ask me to express,
I’ll give you a story,
With which even I might not agree by the end:
Random ideas and thoughts,
Finding them hard to comprehend.
It is this today; tomorrow it will be that.
No ball to play, but yet I’m here to bat.
An unknown street,
A tough land,
Too concrete with a little sand.
No human. No energy. No urge to live.
Am going to have a coffee,
A muffin too,
A cheesecake, a brownie.
Till when can they sort my life—
Just in case I can add that question too?