Story From A Dark Evening

You write the words. 

I imagine herds. 

You try to explain.

But ah! I just strain.

You try to comprehend.

I let it end up.

This chalk and marker.

But my mind a hacker.

Trying to write it.

But just to imitate.

Carrying the burden.

Shame and guilt buried in bosom of this garden.

All of you acting as mentors.

Still all of us standing as warriors.

The door is smashed.

And our dignity feels abashed.

My heart is pounding.

My mind is racing.

The thoughts are frozen.

And my courage broken.

Trying to stand up,

Asking to wind up,

But now this soul is scratched.

And my sprits detached.

Tears dry up.

Still trying to rise up.

But feeling helpless.

All of you acting as mentors.

Just to satisfy your own concerns.

That trauma seizes my breath.

It plunged me to the death.

That dark alley and my shivering nerves.

My helpless friends and me swerves.

You are saying the words on that uplifted stage.

You are writing your opinion on a crumbled page.

You are showing the power which is just null.

You are smashing your own skull.

You are writing a story which has its beginning as end.

You are flowing in a river which has no bend.

You are calling me the incapable and may be problematic.

But now this is enough, you are being Traumatic.