Because she likes poetry.

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Born in muted darkness, alone he entered this world.

Precious loved one to many, but no say in the way he unfurled.

A solitary path, fixed in concrete, laid out in stone.

Imprisoned by love, wanting only, to be left alone.

The life he had was all he knew, adorned in a cloth of propriety.

Out the window, desires he threw, left to the whims of society.

Mistakes were made, lessons learned.

A man came out, a title well earned.

But who he was and what he wanted, lay tragically miles apart.

No pride was left, only regrets, and a gaping hole in his heart.

Love came, love left. Some real, most fake.

Fed up with trying, no more just for the sake.

Life carried on, more obstacles torn down.

Many years passed, he grew himself a crown.

The King of his world, but a pauper he knew.

Lying to himself, a hard shell he grew.

Unbreakable, unshakable, it made him who he was.

The sole missing link, was the woman of his clause.

Her own sweet time, she seemed to take.

With each passing moment, grew his heartache.

Till one day he found her, or she did him,

It didn’t really matter, a smile no longer dim.

The world seemed a better place, through her eyes he’d live.

The smile on her face, oh what he would not give!

He’d finally met his match, no ego did he feel.

She sure was a catch, too good to be real.

Two people so different, yet two people so same.

A clash of the Titans, let’s play the blame game.

Technology an evil need, when cities come in-between.

Longing for the other’s touch , they ought to have foreseen.

Yet here they are, with no regrets.

Making up each time, after break up threats.

How long can this go on, he doesn’t know.

What’s on his mind, he doesn’t show.

Each day a battle, little progress he makes.

The one thing he’s sure of, this car has no brakes.

And so he drives on, fingers crossed at every blind turn.

Cause he knows he loves her, to a point of no return.

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I don’t like poetry very much. I find it so ambiguous and vague. Though I know most of you must have gotten a gist of what I meant, the truer, deeper meaning of a poem, I believe, is locked within this ambiguity. And it opens itself up only to those for whom the poem is meant. To others it is left up to their own interpretation, and to the depth of personal connection that they manage to attain to the verse, based on their own experiences in life, whether or not their rendition matches that of the poet’s.

This was an experiment I enjoyed doing, and only because I felt so strongly about it. But I know if at all appreciated, it would make the most sense only to her.

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