Pondspeak

My poetry is pathetic...Well I believe that. Its' indivualistic, it wallows in self-pity and yes its' unnecessarily depressing. But do I really care! My writing is a means to express myself - to let out my displeasure, my pent-up sorrows. Would I kill myself if I didn't pour it out? I guess not. I am not brave enough. I hate myself. Why am I such a spineless worm? Why do I always have to apologise to every Tom, Dick and Harry? I cannot even stand up to my so-called friends, leave alone enemies.

I was the success meant to be. A child prodigy waiting to be unleashed upon the world. Someone who was supremely confident to stop the world if need be. Nothing could check me. St. Stephen's at 17, IIM at 20, Goldman and Lehman fighting for me even before I turned 21. The world at my feet and I waiting to trample all over it.

Today even my closest friends whisper behind my back. He has no committment. He's a drunken loser. He doesn't know anything, He's a contrarian. Just follow the opposite of what he says and you will make money. He's a hypocrite, a self-conceited confidently wrong shallow person.

I haven't smiled since ages. I haven't been happy since a really long time. And well I am truly alone. How did it come to this? I feel all this is a really bad dream. I shall wake up the next moment safe in my room in Anga, shake my head over the utterly unrealistic dream and go for the Ecosoc meeting. Wish life was that simple. Wish I hadn't screwed up. I wish I wasn't such a simpleton, such a dunderhead.

A drowning man clutches at any straw that he can grasp. I find only twigs, weak feeble ones, which only flatter to deceive. One moment I think I am out of the mire and the next I sink again into the bottomless depth, sputtering to breathe. I really wish I could swim.

The dark age is upon us.
And it is before the dawn of our time
That the doom of my life is upon me
How did it ever come to this?