Life is like a piece of cloth,
Once glorious turns atrocious,
But, in my case
It began with the latter phase
With no chance to turn glorious again.
My life is a tattered piece of cloth
In which, He took every single measure
To ensure that this particular cloth
Is burnt, is tortured, is torn apart ruthlessly.
My Cloth was stomped upon,Was it intentional?
Was it wilful?
I hold no clue.
And Wait! Not just stomped,
It was crushed and poisoned
The last bit of hope died inside.
For years and years,
This cloth was USED
To wipe off other’s dirt,
To make up for other’s faults,
For everything it didn’t do.
Now, this cloth is lying in some shabby corner,
Piled up with garbage,
Garbage of hatred, loath and disgust.
This cloth is already Black,
It died inside many years ago,
Whatever you’re doing now,
Won’t affect it much.
It has learned to face it,
It has grown used to this garbage.
So, your efforts won’t do much
This tattered piece of cloth,
Now doesn’t care about this World.
This poem was written in 2010. It will always remain close to my heart and shall continue to inspire me through each phase of my life. Hope it does the same for you. 🙂