Whatever. Whenever. However.

Under the pile of buried thoughts,
Beneath the layers of denied griefs,
There, I lie in the bottom.
To facade the sense of impending doom,
To pry and to endure,
The unkind fights,
The merciless battles,
The uncanny realities,
Of the days I have lived in,
The curse of the days I’ve died because of,
And the rest of unrecognised existences.
Do I dare,
To bereave the percolate of ideas in my head,
To fit everything beneath the thick layer of my skin,
And surrend the flare
Of a thing/idea, called life?
Or do I crack the layers
And peep through the piles
To cut off the vices,
To (wrongly) thrive
In traces and pieces?
Whatever. Whenever. However.
How I wish to alleviate my fight!