Story

Never back I won't go back. I won't ever return, To that place. To the past. If I could relive my childhood, Rewrite my regrets, And be with everyone, I wouldn't even try. Rather being haunted, Fade out in pain. Lose myself again, Than rewind. There's the start line, And I've left it. I've no reason to go back. Nor look back.

  HALLOWEEN It is that time of year, Where we let the darkness unfold, With our children having no fear, Embracing the eeriness and bleaky cold. They can finally dress-up and go and explore With their family and friends, To knock on their neighbours door. They skip through the darkness with buckets of sweets, Completely unaware of the dangers hiding on the streets.

People   Person 1 has a perfect record, They're admired, they make you feel jealous. A genius, talented, ideal model. Confident and natural. Now Person 2 is a hard worker, They're reliable and experienced. Dedicating hours, learning ahead. Not perfect but respectable. Person 3 fluctuates, dipping in, trying. Failing, with some successes. They are lazy yet creative, Sociable, likeable and relatable. Person 4 wants to be lost. They are towed along, A long one way road, One day hoping the fuel runs out.

A Waste Just a blurry image. Unfocused, Without realising, I zone out. Unbothered,  Unfazed by their words, I pretend to listen. They're not worth my time. I count the seconds, Wishing they would stop. They're wasting their time. Wasting my life.

Memories There is a white wall, It's plain and empty. No scratches or dents, Just pure and blank. As I grow older, The wall catches up to me. Slowly filling up, Scattering with action. It's filled with love, My best memories. The highlights of my life, The things that make my blood still flow. I keep it up on the wall, Never touching since it was first placed. It holds my heart in my body, It keeps me breathing.

My Diary I spill these words down the page. The ink sinks deep into the fibres, It spreads and thins, Imprinting thoughts I'll never now forget. I express the past, this today. The events, the highs, the lows. All my feelings just blurt out, Onto the page, engraved for life. The pen scratches along the page All on its own. My fingers writhe along, Unable to keep up. I'll know one day I'll look back at it, Maybe in the far future, when I have kids, Or I'll leave it aside for future generations, But for now I'll store them up and lock them away. I close this book, As the day ends here, I'm able to move forward, Without dwelling on the past.

To Confess I want to confess to this person. They're fair and cute, exactly my type. If I were better, it would be easy, Yet I feel that I cannot in my current state. Maybe partly because I'm shy, introverted. Or maybe I use it as an excuse. Compared to them, I'm someone they'd pay no mind to, So maybe I don't, afraid to be rejected. My mind is clouded by meaningless thoughts, Believing that it will feel empty if I confess now. I don't want to be an embarrassment being around them, I force myself to wait, to improve myself first. I know. I know I'll be too late, They'll be paired up before I can ask, But I still make myself wait, Just in case. Just in case, it does come true. I wait.  I will wait. I prioritise my goal first, To be more worthy,  Needing this presence.

Still Waiting He's been followed his whole life. Tailed and monitored. Pressured by standards, With a road splitting, two. A single step out that path. He's degraded and mocked. They never forget what he said, Using his own words to haunt and shame. This makes him learn. Not how to socialise or be free, But to hide, lie and keep secrets. Making him alone: inside, home and out. When he's asked a question, He thinks of an answer. Not with his own thoughts and emotion, But the optimal response, fearing. More than 18 years, This false life. He patiently waits for a chance, Not to fight, but to run away.

Insecurity It falls, Droplets, Becoming shower. Opening up an umbrella. It continues falling, Spraying at this wall. It drips off, Left unscathed. It still showers, But dying down, Into droplets, Into nothing. Yet, the umbrella is still open. It covers that face, hiding, Not wanting to be seen, It's not raining, yet it stays up.

What am I doing? Gets up, now awake. Sighing and sullen. Wonders how many days passed, Never even counting. Same routine. Same clothes. Same journey. Same working. Different people, no. Different event, no. Something new, no. On repeat, yes. Relieved when it ends. Able to return home. Hoping to sleep again. Hoping to never rise.

Which Face? It has one face. It's quiet, mysterious, Blending in. Barely noticeable. Then it turns. It has two faces. It's polite and carefree, It has a presence. Hearing it again and again. It turns once more. It has three faces. It's manner is questionable, Rudeness tinged on jokes, Slipping out from time to time. It turns once more...

My Passion Someone strikes a match. And they pass it to me. In which yet again. I light another candle. Its flame is spirited, untamed,  But full of warmth. It frequently flares,  Bright and hot. It lingers. Encapsulating your heart, Gripping tightly. For a time, some time. But like the rest of the candles That lay in the room, It will have the same trail. The same two paths. Either left alone to wither, Or pursued to its full extent. Either the flame is extinguished, Or melted away into a pool of nothing.

Sound of my Rain Pitter patter pitter patter, It falls down with a splatter. It slides down, Some quick, some slow, It drips. It splatters. I never know when it will come It's a cycle. Starting high, Ending low. Tears. I can't help it.

Rumours A dim rows of stars wane across the vast horizon. Underneath, the streets dimly glow, The midnight wind spirals, gathering litter and leaves, And with an updraft they disperse. Scattering all over. Faint outline of a figure, Starved, malnourished. A young boy. He creeps along the side. He slouches with a contorted spine, Etched with lies and deceit, Branded by signatures. A captive. Tethered and rooted. He croaks with his fissured lips crumbling, Fading to the whispers, Carrying a plague. We've heard of them We've never seen them or known them, But that's what we've heard. So it must be true.

The Race I've done it! I've finally passed the finish line. All that effort, I've drained it all. Months of preparation and practice. I face my family, my friends. I ask. 'How was I, did I do well?' I'm ecstatic, I can't control it. The excitement hovers. It hovers. Only brief moment. Then the dreaded stern face stares once more. I look back for the tenth time. I am at the start again. The finish line is much further this time. The never-ending race I'm forced into. No time to rest. I must run on. I don't want to be left behind. Not again. But the main thing I think of is, Can this end?

Overthink He walks through the corridor. He meets a corner. He thinks he might bump into someone. He is left anticipating. ... He waits. He lets time plod. He's left with many possibilities. He starts to think. ... Could it be some mutated body? Dragging its frame across the floor, Grasping out its bony hands. Waiting for him, about to shriek. Or could it be a trap? Will a boulder come rolling? Or an ambush awaiting? Something there ready to meet him. All the possibilities ravage him. He swiftly turns, prepared. Nothing is there. It's just a corner.

Broken It's heavy. It gets harder to breathe, It weighs me down, Sinking like quicksand, I'm suffocating. It arrives in periodic waves. A hand that clutches it, Wrapping around my core. It squeezes. And releases. A deep, swollen pain. Lingers. It gnaws at my ego, Grinding it down, To a thin paste, before it's swallowed. I clutch my chest tightly, Using my two hands, To find my heartbeat, But I cannot. Only a resounding scrape is heard from within. It's my hand that's in me,  Crushing, removing my organs. It's me who's self-inflicting.

Hunger It gurgles, Sloshing. Shaking the earth. Needing attention, popularity. So it targets the weak. It's empty, mindless. A blank soul, Craving for recognition and commotion. Its only desire is self-satisfaction. When it feeds, It calms. It sleeps. Pleased to fulfil its aim . Till the next round, It repeats. Cycling around. Without providing, it only takes. It's hungry. I'm hungry.

The Norm Something feels off, It seems much brighter. The lights glare, It seems much whiter. I feel normal, as usual, With the same fading eyes. No excitement around, You could say 'I'm fine', I guess. I stare at the whiteboard, To the white wall, Down to the white sheet, And back to the whiteboard. The room feels empty, It feels blank. Just another cycle, another day, And as expected.

Escapist A sudden blur phases. He sprints, dashing with a panting breathe, With chains locked to his wrists. A masking wind sighs. Flashes of light wavers around, With a spasm of flickers. Blaring shouts echo, reverberating. They search meticulously. He is hindered by a barricade,  But doesn't think and writhes his way through, With metal thorns sinking deep, He opens up, exposing. Yet he nears the exit, Close to regaining his lost vision, No longer needing to abide by the heinous rules, Finally, rid of being that pavement, that road. ... Finally, he left his room. But it's strange. Lighting was the same. Air smells, feels the same. He looks down, and the chains still hang.

  Selfish Winning the race, survival. It's implanted in our body, Abiding to it from the beginning. We do it just to live more. We learn new skills. To gain the upper hand against like-skin, While casting others away, rejecting them. Steal all the opportunities for ourselves. We try for freedom, for more rights, Facing head on with the cursed history, Fighting for the future generation, Or fighting for a selfish aim. Our underlying pure intentions, Hides desire and self-accomplishment. An unrevealing objective, Labeled as unintentional, being admired. We step on those immobilised, Hailed and praised for standing out, Though none are pure, none are truly true. Desires runs deep in the crying rivers beneath your skin.