Lessons of Life (LOL)

I was alone in bed, laying down, in attention, like any soldier would stand in front of her major. I had my eyes shut  and not before long, I had almost gone into a delicate sleep after much waiting, when the soft sound of rustling leaves left me wide awake. At once, I sat up in my bed, seething with rage at the cheekiness of those leaves and soft breeze mingling! Their love story could wait, couldn't it! And, so, I made a beeline for the fir tree. It was Christmas and so, the only direction from where that kind of sound could come from was now right before me. Swiftly, I headed towards the near-by open window, and a thud was all that it took for me to separate the two lovers.  "You can love each other after my beauty sleep is complete, okay?" I said turning towards the culprits. "And you all are-" ,but I was heckled upon seeing some perplexing figure hiding behind the fir stem, but hence, had turned more prominent than anything else in the room.  I shrunk my

Every unforgettable incident in one's life has a reason for being so, just as lamentable happenstances are indelible because of the token of scars that they leave on one's skin and soul. Humans are so fortunate for being mortal and for not having the load to bear their scars till the end of time. However, a scar is awarded by the Almighty not only to the humans but also to many immortals. He even renders it to the countries, the territories that humans claim to own, but this untold story always escapes our eyes.  Every country in the world has witnessed tragic wars; wars that are fought to own it, but wars which leave it with scars instead. Every country has experienced the pain of feeling it's heritage rooting out and of seeing it's people being massacred at it's chest. While, the blood of the soldiers is what the country absorbs in it's land and send to its heart. The soul of the territory takes all the scars given to it by its people. At the same time, the

"My life is like your throat, Almighty!" I told Lord Shiva realizing it while still wrapped in a hug with him. "What? How?" he asked me, almost giggling at the stupid comparison made by me. "Yes, of course, it is! Your throat is so blue, Lord." Said I, depicting obviousness. "And, also, it's cold like my life." "Cold and blue." repeated Lord Shiva with a tone of analyses. I just nodded, pulling him tighter. He hummed and called me "as right as rain." "There is yet another similarity , angel!" he pointed out. "My throat has given me honour amongst people, just like your life will do" he declared. I pulled back at once. "Really?" I interrogated in an awe. "No kidding!" said a grinning Lord, as he gently brushed the hair off my face. "But," said he, making me alert "this throat has given me tonnes of responsibilities, followed by a multitude of regrets, break do

She was a budding writer with her horn-rimmed spectacles as the proof. Write-ups governed her life like nothing else. She was busy writing stories for her blog when she saw a comment on one of the posts. Bleep! The comment was by an American man, who was appreciating her work "as write as rain!" What could an Indian writer want more than an American native praising  her English! She was never too confident of herself and doubted the truthfulness of the man too. She had to seek the real flaws of her blog that the man, out of courtesy, had not mentioned publicly. "Hi, Paul." And she initiated a chat with the man. "I would like to thank you for showing your appeasement with my blog. Yet, I would like you to be a bit more critical about it." That was the first text in the history of their chat box. Little did she know of the gift God had placed her way. Paul Atkinson, the American native, had replied saying that he recommended no changes for the b

She feels a lot but would never speak, She prefers to write rather, Than being misunderstood, She wants to be an authoress. She writes when she smiles or even weeps, She spills her emotions on the paper, She prays and hopes she would, One day, surely become an authoress. She takes a white paper that's thin and meek, Then, paints it with her emotional colour, She wishes that she could, For once, turn into an authoress. She doesn't express till her emotions leak, And the words console her like a mother, She wants that she should, Become a renowned authoress. Just as a sheet, she knows she's weak, And so they comfort each other, The value of works she has understood, She'll surly become an authoress!

*A free verse poem...* "So, you are the one who preaches prophecies, And you are the one who's optimistic, So, why do you muse over the tiny thing, When you know there's so much more to life?" 'I care not for myself but my family, They care for this diminutive detail, I've been mindless and exhausted, But I curse myself for it.' "You've given your best, I know, No better could you do, Worked hard you have, I am aware, Be confident of your God." 'It doesn't matter if I give my all, The output doesn't suffice, No appeased am I of myself, I've failed my family.' "Practice more. You can improve. You have the potential, You can live your dream, Comprehend and live with little failures." 'Practice, practice, practice! Everyone says so twenty four-seven, I've worn my fingers out, Suspended all I could for practicing!' "Are you so happy when you win As gloomy you&#