Being Human

Then there's this day

when you find more hair 

in your comb, and the pillow

that you lay back on 

dreaming the remains of life.

Standing on the inception

of untimely losing process

that ends till

there's nothing to lose,

You feel sick of your nails,

your shadow, the touch

of your own skin and 

the stuff of your clothes.

You want no next generation,

trapped into the viciousness

of blood, emotions, tears

or even smiles, especially

the wrinkles you foresee, 

initiated over by your forehead

when you're too young to be old.

Will there be a day too,

when you finally lose

the ability to over think

or think at all,

and the grudged memories

ultimately fade, instead of

hiding under the years

of my age or pictures of time.

If so happens or not,

you long for the day

when you're no weak enough

to deal with the

randomity of being a human.