Carving.

There are times I feel I’ m not human but a carving of my own suffering.
Living in an abode of expectations,
never following a to do list of do’ s and don'ts.
I falter to redeem life stories,
sometimes of phantom of glory!

Stories that surround me are everything but real.
No joy to hold on to, for long.
We live to belong in the rhymes of unsung songs.
But somewhere our carving goes wrong.

Though there are carvings on walls behind me,
I do not know where they shine, in the vintage of time or in an old rock lawn?
Where do I go to revisit the carving of my story?

Now, I re-write my story penning down poems for every passerby, so that they could always cherish a part of themselves, for they could find a part of them in poetry., they could cling to the page a little longer, only to read it as a rhyme they could sing to themselves.

I have become today a passerby,
a wanderer collecting her story in the eyes of every passerby.,, for they walk back to their story through her collective, fine tuned in verse.

Perhaps, in all good faith she scribbles, recklessly, only to write a poem for every passerby.
Words now are habituated to call upon all passerby' s.