Itch to Scratch

Often words fail my intentions when elders are around.

Especially on those condolence gatherings,
when every one's either sombre or soothing.

Life's cold & past for one,
whose tragedies they spoke of none.

Hush tones were mumbed by stares.
The clever ones escaped.

The ones who remained,
They shed some tears in vain.

But still the soul,
couldn't climb the hole.
It fell deeper into hellish heights,
where no might could stand the fight.

So I spoke. So I awoke.
Is it over? May I leave?

Start from scratch

It's a cliche, but have you ever wondered why we say 'start from scratch'?
If I take it literally and refer to my creative urges & outpourings as scratching an itch... I would die if I didn't scratch it today.
So I did. Jot it-note it-blog it. What I write about is immaterial. It's a fictional mix of memory & dreams. I may write about heavens & stars or deaths & scars; but what I will try to do is make you think.
Thinking is free. But in life we don't choose to waste our valuable attention on thinking about mundane or old things. So we slowly but surely turn the tourniquet of oblivion and transform memories into nostalgia.
I wish to turn up those tiles under which your paper boats sunk.
Tee toe those muddy roads with you, while back from school.
Feel like the king on your water tank top.
It won't matter who & how old you are, where you live or anything else. What would matter is - if you choose to think... would you tell your stories too?
The shortest one for today's 1st post:
I was hunting for tree tops with a wide view of the school next door. I even got one, climbed it and enjoyed the view when the girls came out to play.
They couldn't see me. I felt like the modern Krishna. I was about to aim a letter rocket at one.But then again...
My employer yelled, "There's pile of cups, wash them fast."
I grinned to myself and climbed down, literally.