When I was 13, I could instantly recite every poem I had ever written, word for word. But at that time, I had written only around a dozen poems, all of which I am embarrassed to even remember. Such immaturity, deliberate attempts to rhyme, and such crappy expression! But yeah, I could still remember them when I felt like it…now I try to remember one, and nothing comes to me…absolutely nothing. Anyways, I was just thinking abt this, when I discovered this apparently spontaneous poem on the first day of school. Let alone remembering it, I am still trying to figure out when and where and why and in what mood I wrote this...i found it at the back of my umpteenth maths register…all I know is, it was during my recent exams. I don’t really think much of this; I haven’t bothered to add or delete anything or edit it in any other way… I think it must be abt being a teenager-though I don’t generally feel this depressed anymore, I guess I was just in the usual exam mood… now I read it, it sounds more like what I feel abt growing up from time to time…like one of my literature teachers said: ‘One thing I won’t hide from u…growing up is VERY hard, we should never expect it to be an easy process’…and if I listen to no other teacher and no other person, I’ll listen to her. I must write a blog post abt her sometime…she’s one of the most wonderful people in the world, but for now, only this is available from aty… So many things you can’t understand And for no reason you cry again You think no one feels, and no one can care You hide your tears, and every scar Then hide your face in your trembling hands, And going out, you wear a mask Dreams float away as you wake up Their memory haunts you all day long Your hands, your heart, are never enough to catch them, and then there you are; In the dark, pretending you can see every light Without a voice, yet you sing every song The words you write fade away, are lost The swirling sea licks up every print Memories stop listening to any pleading voice Then everything’s still, every face is blank You’re looking back, confused, in vain But the past is so blurred, then you’re moving away I will never, ever stop posting stuff like this—this is just like any other poem I’ve written….blahy was rite…my poems are all so similar…but what can I do, I can’t stop myself from writing in the same old fashion, and I can’t stop myself from posting it…