Depressive Reason.

Sometimes in between the speeches at the seminar, and dictation of notes,
I hear my childlike whimpers.
And in between the gaps of sections, Subsections, clauses,
Printed on law books,
Words pop-up from my 2011’s diary.
There is this smell of muddy land
After the first rain,
Reminding me about the pillows
Soaked in the scent of my tears.
Sometimes I’m sighting the frond of a leaf,
And I see half molten alphabets,
Because the ink had merged with the
Precipitation of my eyes,
And later had dried.
Sometimes, I am just smiling,
Breathing the chilled winds,
And in the next moment I feel drops
Of sadness, decorating my skin.
I look down, twisting my hand in every way,
I see its dryness.
Because, I’m so habituated to sobbing,
That I feel weird being totally happy.
Honey, I’m not that person, not anymore,
Who used to cry for the slightest wounds,
For someone’s raised hand,
Or for slangs thrown at her.

Honey, now I don’t cry like before,
And hence I do not have to find excuses either.
But, sometimes,
Sometimes I find reasons, for how my rose plant had been healthy, had grown quite tall,
Besides my ignorance for days.
And while searching its source, I find you.

The way you became my main excuse,
For some uncountable streams of tears.
Without complaining.
Honey, I have never confessed in front of the world,
But I want to whisper it now,
I want you to know, that you weren’t that terrible,
That you were a fine human, with your own reasons, and flaws,
And not always merely
The reason behind my depression.

I’m sorry I had always needed to push the blame onto you,
For I wanted to get rid of them,
And I knew not for them, any better place to dump.

And because I knew you would yet again
Absorb my tears, disguised as the cause of those,
Like ever before.

Honey, I’m sorry you’d been molded as someone’s melancholy,
As the tears of a weak human.

I’m sorry, I buried your efforts.
Honey, thank you for being the reasons of my tears,
Or at least faking as you were the same.
I gained sympathies, out of my lies,
And I’m prouder than the guilt I take

Right now I’m getting patted in adoration,
For being good at gardening.
And, no, I’m not really denying to their praises. images (6).jpg

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