Ill-Advised

By Himadri Shailesh Patel

Aimless, enfeebled, undecided.

The worry, like a bump in my gullet.

Not understanding where to start,

Not understanding where it’ll end,

Not understanding if this is what I want?

Not understanding how life will make me flex.

We’re suspected to be in the same boat,

And still each of our yards having their own load to bear.

A few of us trying to stay buoyant; some, no longer care.

Self-centered, specious, stooge.

The enrage, like the wrinkles on the old sheepskin of my face.

Not discerning when I’ll make my path,

Not discerning when to my wounds I’ll tend,

Not discerning where is the after math,

Not discerning where we start to mend.

We’re supposed to be running the race,

And still none of us want to come to the finishing line,

Some of us matched the pace;

Some are climbing the incline.

Exorbitant, alienated, egoistic.

The agony, like the anguish of a booming ocean in my heart.

Not understanding if I’ll adapt,

Not understanding if I’ll fit in the act,

Not understanding if I’ll make an impact,

Not understanding if I’ll only be an abstract.

We’re presumed to be a piece of heavens art,

And still in each of us, a distinct color fades;

A few of us need a brand new start,

A few master to change the shades.

But when they try to escort you to the ground,

And grab for them the crown;

Remember they’re with you too,

In the past, present and future sky blue.

So when they label you names,

And capture you in their games;

Do not feel surprised,

Superior than appearing never, is to appear ill-advised.

By Himadri Shailesh Patel