The Renditions..

This world is a stage. A lot of renditions are being performed here every now and then. You and me..we are also playing a role in few of them..In few we became an integral part of it because we consciously decided to be be a part of it. But what bothers me the most and kills me every moment are those in which I was forced to be a part of it without being made aware of the consequences..and I couldn't detach myself when I wanted to come out of it because by then it had become an integral part of mine..something in me denied to move on.....
Whatever or whichever play it be..TIME always takes the director's seat..it makes you play the character which you are supposed to..he doesn't give a damn even if you didn't want to see yourself in it...!!!And then the melancholy..the sadness..few tears flowing down the cheeks retrospecting those golden days!!!
Hey grow up..behave mature..Its time for you to perform in another play..

Immature?Yeah you are right..

A walk to remember,
Lots of special memories to be cherished,
Though don't know if those are worth it.
Few dreams which will possibly never become reality,
Countless promises as genuine as god,
But they failed to stand the storm.
Was flipping through the pages from the past,
And it made me realize how immature I was.
May be lots of tears are yet to be swallowed,
As I am still in the process of growing up.

The path leading to nowhere

This is from my blog. I think it fits in here.

In the mob there is a lad,
Lost and sober in his thought.
A will to fight, a flame to survive,
In the wilder of this life.

Came to the world with a smile,
Laughed and cried in impeccable bliss.
Toyed with books never in place,
Smiling in the arms of his fairy.

Learned to walk fumbling and mumbling,
Being ironically comic in the crowd.
Rosy cheeks pulled with tender hands,
Pampered yet punished to be mould.

Years passed and he grew up,
Wishing for roses in disguise.
Is there mist in his eyes,
Of the dreams in which he cried.

Twisted but weaved is his story,
Rusted but chiming is his glory.
From immense despair to a perfect bliss,
Wish him luck for walking path leading to nowhere.