Mother. Father. Thank You.

After drifting through endless wars through time, I have become worn out, worn out of defending my every move, every decision. Hurled through companies wearing faces of deciet, hidden behind curtains sewn so dexteriously, even the guilty forgets his guilts and holds such profoundly to a smile flashing an endless bliss of light. we take birth, and so mercilessly forget whom we took it from, and you fall in love.
You know it, and she knows it, but you just wouldn’t get past a few adrenaline glances, trying to find if her pupils are dilated enough. And while your conscious mind is wandering through options that do not hurt your beautiful conscience, your subconscious precisely knows what they are dilated for. Words become such poor,  the poet stands alone in the dark because to a lovely mind, it seemed every move he made was for the words written down here, to please a random reader from mars. And why does it not make sense you ask? Its because the poets light themselves up, so the world can see, and not accidentally cut their throats while riding on a beauty that could not be contained. And he takes it all into him, because he has a vent of words, purifying the world, one word at a time. And then, on his desk everyday, he crumples and dies a zillion times to find words, because its too much, and he shivers trying to stop those things forming in his eyes, they impede vision. What world does he live in? does he not see her? Now what does he do to this life which he so mercifully called hers? He does not want to be a poet anymore.
Thank you mother, thank you father, for standing by my every move, looking at my head pointing a wrong direction, and humbly standing by while I realise, and not hurt my ego. Thank you for not judging your son when you watched him watch his steps, and for not breaking his heart for every count he broke yours. Thank you for this life, and for this endless faith, that whatever world that I am in, you are there to lend me a lap as the happy worlds hurtfully refuse me.

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