I can't make myself believe it's the end.
I've been counting on things, gathering moments and clasping them in my fist. Tighter, every time, not to let them go. But you seem to be water, effortlessly running out drop by drop — deliberately emptying my fist.
But you know what! I'm not mad for this nothingness you've caused me.
What comes, has to leave, eventually; I understand.
And now that you're departing, I'd like to tell you I'm grateful for you happened.
You remember the first guy I espied at college, the one that 2014 gave me glimpses of?
Even 2015 and 2016 bulked down, busting their guts to get him to me but failed.
Thank you! He knows me now.
No! I don't have a thing for him anymore.
Thank you, more, for making me realize his mind was not colorful as his bag. That asshole!
I don't remember the first time I wrote a praiseworthy piece of literature, but I do remember the last, for now.
Thank you for this narcissism that kicks in when it comes to my poems, even though the fingers behind run clumsily in turmoil, quivering breaths tells stories with no voice.
December has always been a pain in the ass, you know that. Right?
'Back to December,' is just a song now, holds no agony, no aloneness.
Thank you for letting know — if something's not meant to be, let go.
As I write this, I smile. What a mess I am!
Today, Mommy and Daddy were conversing over the dining table, gobbling on chicken sticks. As I caught my name, I rushed downstairs.
"My daughter is my pride," was all I could hear.
Dad says it every day, every damn time.
But this sounded delighted to my ears, little strange, fucking good.
Thank you for making Mommy say that.
(I still don't know the reason behind it. Maybe, because I can make round chapatis now. Lol. No! Or is it?)
After a bittersweet relationship of almost four years, a little joy in life felt like drastically beautiful poem dressed in metaphors — those where syllables get crimson of shying for being involved.
Those who were in love fell out of it.
People seldom cared.
Some robbed me of my sanity, others just took away cash.
(Hell yes! Money plays on emotions).
Fuckers who fake nobility still breathe.
Bitches, seduction, bitches, seduction — maintained its place, I'll never reach.
I know, the last part here that tinged my soul, you plucked the role from 2016. (why can't you years be grief-less?)
I'm still not mad. Just don't let 2018 adapt this feature and become a catastrophe.
(Is it gonna be a copycat, too?).
I'm still not ma... Okay! That's it!
Someone whom you almost screwed but showed mercy to, too.