The Genius

well was quite surprised whn KP ( er.. dont bang me .. i am ur good pal.. remember) mailed me his poem which was written some 4 yrs bac... but truly its amazing.. first time when i went thru it.. i thought its just anthr leaf in the tree.. but nope. when viddu told me to read the entire stuff.. i just couldnt stop goin thru it again and again.. an truly awesome one.. and he deserves a pat( ah.. where?).. life is weird.. aint it ?... coz we never know who has what kind of hidden talents with them.. some one once said.. everyone is a genius.. some get to see the light.. and some dont.. well enough of me blabbering.. go thru the masterpiece...

You can't think of a memory that doesn't hurt.
Youwalk along the street at night, head filled
with profound and dark thoughts,and you know
that regardless of how beautiful this internal
poetry is,and how neat this world is, it doesn't mean
shit because no one's there towatch it with you.

When you walk, you keep hoping that someone
you know willstop and say "Hey, what's the matter,"
and you can tell them, but no onedoes. The cars
whiz by like they always do, oblivious to the tortured
pedestrian only feet away from them.

As you walk alongthe street, you hold conversations
with people in yourhead - witty things to say to the
cops if they stop you (they never do),phone calls to
ex-girlfriends, ex-friends, old friends. "Hey there,
know it's been a while, but I just thought I'd call you..."
You'llnever call them, shying away from the potential
dissapointment andembarassment.

You walk along, building fantasies ofsome girl you
fancy, but you're beyond the sex now,now you're
picturing yourself bumping into her, herlooking at
you with compassion in her eyes and saying"What's wrong?"
What's wrong. The magic question that no one seems toask.

People obviously know *something* is wrong - they shy away
from you atthe supermarket, they smile nervously when you
bring your gaze up from thefloor (its usual resting place) and
set it on their faces. But no onecan bother themselves with you.

Your friends, if you could call them those,come and go, their
lives as manufactured and brittle as polymer. For some
reasonpeople digust you now, and you can't stand being
around them. You getclaustrophobic in your own house,
which is why you're walking. As you walk, tearstrickle
down your cheeks.

A piece of music grips your soul, embodiesyour dispair,
and you walk along, gently humming, tears staining theasphalt.
You know that, no matter how beautiful the sunrise, no matter
howprofound the thought, no matter how trancendental the
experience, it's notworth anything without someone to see it,
hear it, andexperience it with you. Depression is hell.

adios!!