These are poems I wrote in a different phase of my life—when my understanding of people, pain, and the world was still forming.

They come from a place of intensity, confusion, anger, and reflection. I have made only small changes, keeping them close to how they were written.

Might be I don’t see everything the same way anymore, but I still recognize the person who wrote them.

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ILLUSION

Do you want lots of money?
It isn’t everything, my friend.

Do something that gives you peace and satisfaction—
Something that moistens your eyes
When someone blesses you for what you’ve done.

Even Alexander could not take
A single inch of land with him.

Then what will your name, fame, power, prestige,
Or your dollars do—
When you are finally mixed with the sand?

If you are here today,
Tomorrow you will have to go.

So why not play a better role
In this passing stage show?

Will you even see tomorrow’s sunrise?
Then how can you call another man dull
And yourself wise?

And remember, my friend—
Let any season come…

Life is nothing but
An illusion.

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The Best Men Died

“Where are the best men?”, the blind fellow asked

I will tell you a secret—

He grew up under his father’s hand, cursed by his mother
He became an outlaw, a criminal

And they said,
“We knew that devil since he was a child.”

“Where are the best men?”, the deaf fellow asked

I will tell you a secret—

Some of them went mad,
Wandering alone through silent corridors

And some hanged themselves,
Tired of the fight

“Where are the best men?”, the dumb fellow asked

I will tell you a secret—

His radiating mind, his fiery eyes, his unconquerable soul
Found no place in this world

Because society can forgive a rapist, a murderer
But not a man trying to become the best

And some—

Did not die.

They withdrew.
They disappeared into silence.

Not defeated—
Just unwilling to belong.

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One Day…

One day your friends will stab you,
Not only in the back, but in the chest

Just let the circumstances change,
And judge it for yourself

One day your family will disown you,
The moment you stop adding to the tangible

Or begin to crawl in their eyes,
Like one of Kafka’s creatures

One day your love will turn against you,
And say that you have changed

But it is not the who that lost its path,
It is the what that chose a different road

But amidst all this—

If the man in the mirror salutes you,
And stands by your side,

You will outlive every defeat,
And the world will lie beneath your feet—

One day.

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We all have versions of ourselves that once believed these things completely.