/ Poetry

Drained leaves ahoy

The last few weeks have been particularly testing, I must say. Particularly so, with the kind of thoughts that have been coming back into the head. The thoughts that I try to quash and avoid as I wake up each day, yet consumed by in hours.

No amount of ignoring, coaxing, or putting up a happy/brave face seems to have helped in the years. Is this a case of me doing it all wrong? Quite possible, one could say.

The years from 2011-2014 had been particularly testing in a way that has been haunting ever since. For someone with not a lot of friends, books and spending time out with myself was the only escape for long.

But, how does one deal, when this becomes a precedent with immature individuals around? That ended up happening, around the troubling period and I had in an utter foolish manner decided to give up. Give up, not on people as I do lately, but on what kept my sanity. After all, I felt it would be selfish, when another uses it as precedent for what's killing them.

Probable that three years weren't much, probable that they were a little too much a stretch. Ends, I have lost the few friends I had given how I kept away from meeting them. Worse, even the practice of taking away on own seems so alien these days. But that's better I guess, given the worst; being in a place where you have none but yourself.

An eerie sense of similarity comes by, for the worst is in place not because I liked it, but because it worked for others. I wouldn't learn for long, but there's something for me to learn about myself, this way.

Dabbled this while thinking about things above, a while back. Thinking of what has happened as the outcome of those fateful years and those that I have been living now. Hope might be what Red says, or what Andy says, but when it does not exist, what remains to say?


Smirk the young one's subtle, at showers of praise he had seen;

years have gone by he thought, tiding, vessel now a wreck.

Useful he was all along, alongside the beck that had been;

useless and filled much in sham, his use for them no long a reck.


"Nothing had changed," said the master, teapot noiseless around;

swung with when water had heat, drained once it goes on away.

Go forth the tea leaves my dear, uses where people surround;

so should I go on ahead, tending to what's gay and hay.


Makes not a master young lad, the path for us winding ahead;

leaves in here go to the pot, to plants and their usage to find.

Rejoicing as always they go, pain's semblance no longer dread;

go forth and make you the same, flourish in your garden, the mind.


Stands far away out the young, for his sake I gave up my tea;

his body and tea being oil, and water the two ended being.

I have not a drink for me master, a leaf neither left out to flee;

where do I go on ahead then, the brook here alas has a calling.


His smiles gentle more than ever, the master's ways always clever.

Hopes not for stream flowing on, the beauty to watch from the banks;

the leaves and teapot my boy, meant for your knife to sever.

Aside stood the young lad bemused, the master he thought always yanks.


Pensive you shan't be young one, they know not the pains of the leaf;

the leaf goes its own path along, to newer its pastures it finds.

It says not a word spent in all, of water and of all her blinds;

it gives all along as it goes, the leaf's life here certain so brief.


You would find in all something odd, utopic the thoughts here I say;

your shoes not mine also you may, the young days of mine come afore.

But not there we are neither here, the limbo is ours here to stay;

stride on the wave here my dear, the brook's destination's a shore.