Dying Young

It was always there in me, this thought of dying young.

The tales of talented youth dying much before

They found no use for  their eager dreams,

Kindled a desire of blazing out like a forest fire.

The ones who had done so were many to count:

Long before they reached the age of thirty-three,

Jesus, Shelley, Keats and my own writerly father

Who left so many manuscripts and diaries.

Now, in my thirties, I wonder what made them tick,

What went in their bodies or minds to make them sick

And no longer afraid of lightning or busy roads,

Fresh cylinders or changing a light bulb all myself.

Sometimes I think I might die of laughter or heart-attack

From reading twisted truths on my students’ answer sheets.

Future

The life of hopes and ambitions is not the life you live,

From the cradle the baby is taught to dream and hope

But when the dark and light of youth decide to fight,

It is often darkness which wins and leaves one lost.

For the ones who have won and moved ahead of others,

Who do not share the burden of your past sorrows,

Who measure you by their own measures of success,

Your dreams are a reason to poke fun and laugh at you.

While you plod against life gathering the missing pieces,

Often having to start again after losing so many times,

The victory that would have tasted sweet in dreams,

Being like a mirage that eludes only you every time.

Yet some day the dark would give way to the dawn,

And if God wills, it will be an everlasting sunshine.