My Story

I am writing a book,

that would glorify the songs of blue

and sing praises of the daily heroic humdrums that I valiantly triumphed through;

A book that would lionize the obscure walks I took like the moon walking towards its eclipse

and celebrate the pages of remarkable sunsets when no rain could quench the thirst of the somber lips.

I am writing a book,

that would dedicate odes to the setting sun

and to those stranded quests for the hearts of stars at the loss of a loved one;

That would not make me feel miserable for the choices I accepted but never made

and would put me on a pedestal for that melancholy smile, I so beautifully masquerade.

I am writing a book,

that would contain tragedies in pages I would want to tear off, but will not

for when I look back to the finished stories I would realize that this memoir is mine, and those half-written characters were so paralyzed to have shaped my final plot;

That would underline the days when it was scorching heat with no signs of a cool veil, and I would come home fragile and frail with a face, deadpan

that would hymn pivotal feats when I did not need the cape to be a Superman.

I am writing a book,

which will not contain references of stalwart triumphs and passionate conquests

but would present stories where the tears run dry and eyes go sore seeking success;

It would trail answers for questions unsought

and would rather end on a sad quote.