Regret.

Memories, feelings and sorrow;

Are not for sale; not to borrow;

In the bazaar called life,

Where my heart is for sale;

My heart would shout

“Hey! At least hear my tale”

When I was young, made mistakes,

Never did it right, after many takes;

I would be sad, angry and mad;

I would cry all day long;

After all, it was my bad.

I am a teen now; expected to work hard,

I am a grown up now; bearded like a pard;

As I progress with my life, I feel like a prisoner;

A prisoner in his own home; with no air; no food.

I am unable to judge; is it any good?

I might be jolly on my face,

But sleep meets me after a race;

A race between me and my thoughts.

Thoughts that are deliberate; immediate and aimless.

Providing these thoughts a home; is not painless;

Thoughts that are hard; uneasy and make me

Regret…

Regret my growing up in this world of pain;

I do not find it worth, growing out of pain.

Regret my nature; NATURAL to me;

I am a small pawn; trying hard to be.

Regret my feelings; on which I have no control.

Can’t find a way out of this field,

I am injured. Still asked to score a goal.

Regret my choices. My choice to be;

Someone I admire, which is, ME.

If My Handwriting was My Self-Respect

What if my writing, was my self-respect.

Would it be horrid, or would it be musing,

I am no one to select, you do the choosing.

My s’s are good, my l’s fine.

I struggle with A’s, coz I never drew a line.

Considering my words, tiny and small,

My peers won’t notice, me in a hall.

I would not be anyone, nobody to ponder over,

Though I would be someone; someone to trod over;

People hate my writing, call it atrocious,

They know not, that they are calling my esteem, vicious.

I do not write neatly; clearly and properly,

My letters are struck together, timidly, tightly.

Numbers and symbols,

Commas are the ones,

Over which I, tumble.

They know little, they are abusing my self-respect indeed,

Is it their criticism, concern or mere greed?

Whatever it is, my self-respect is hurt,

There is no excuse, no if no but.

Sometimes I think, Sometimes I feel.

Isn’t my content, enough to heal,

The harm that made, me colourful life teal.

What if the critics, just would have pondered,

On my usage and expression

They would have wanted to see,

How my self-respect, humiliated, had wandered.

What if my concept, would have been analysed.

Would my writing, still be penalised?

My self-respect has been suppressed,

Marked upon, counselled and made depressed.

I am pretty modest, still trying to be,

But unfortunately I have,

Lost my identity, my inner me.