Life Updates:

Everything’s been going so smoothly lately that before I could even realize it, 6 months passed. And from those months, all I remember is being in my room... I guess the poem really summarizes it all. Or does it? (Vsauce theme plays in the background 🎶)

Also btw if you’re reading this… have great day ～( ´ ▽｀～)

My brain, so blank, must think it queer
To see no shows or memes appear.
“No dead ever complained, you know…”
On article that says How to Disappear.

My cursor blinks in mute distress,
For YouTube video on “how to guess.”
Shall a fool not trade his test for scrolls,
And dost he amuse himself ere death shall toll?

The nights are lovely, dark, and deep,
But overnight I’ve syllabus to sweep,
And miles of topics still to keep,
And miles of panic till I sleep.

I was supposed to study, btw.

This poem is for people who open notes, read two lines, then suddenly start thinking about life, memes, and mortality at 2 a.m.

If you are that kind of person… first of all, what are you doing here huh XD?
But yeah, hiii. We’re in the same boat. It is sinking, but the view is aesthetic✨️

The poem is very clearly inspired by Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.
Or should I say… I made a parody out of his poem https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42891/stopping-by-woods-on-a-snowy-evening :)

He is my favorite poet, btw.

Byee, I hope you have a wonderful day/night.

Sees a dead swan, said a rat.
"Submerge me in depth: those eyelids go."
And I, with red-tainted hands,
couldn’t measure how deep the blood-filled snow.

Do these rats know
about getting killed
for staying too long nearby?

Rat is wondering;
rat continues to think.
"Blending in the whiteness above,
and to even go there,
for when in the mood to fly!?"

It’s interesting how people can deeply appreciate the culture of a place they’ve never lived in. They notice beauty in its traditions, language, music, or way of life…sometimes (often(most of the time)) more than the people who grew up there.

What’s strange is that this happened even before the man’s favorite thing (hint- internet ) made global exposure easy. Back then, people discovered other cultures through books, letters, art, or travelers’ stories. They didn’t see everything, but what they saw felt rare and meaningful (maybe that’s the reason I used to find the outer world so interesting through the colorful pictures in my GK books)

Maybe that distance made them imagine the rest (: and imagination often adds a kind of purity or idealism that real experience can’t sustain (cute isn’t it? lol)

When you live inside a culture, you stop noticing its details. The space and sounds that define it, start feeling ordinary, even boring. And while questioning all the attainable “benefits” from it… you dissolve the beauty too much into a façade of rationality. It might also be because you get dulled by the usualness of things that are supposed to be there.

For me if anything i know, I’d pay the heftiest amount possible to see the world with fresh, naive, and unbiased eyes. Maybe just for the irony…but the distance would give me the clarity.

He won’t be dying the death
of those who lose in a breath.
He will die of slow forgivings,
yet none would forgive his death.

After receiving the abode, he may lie
in front of the streets,
knowing all they die...
and so people would cry
quite often,
of happenings
done by the old scoundrel in the sky.

He may rest... knowing it all.
It’s all just empty;
and so is the empty sky.

If I met him once,
I would forgive him.
Not twice,
but thrice.
Maybe a fourth time too.
Again, the naked man would count each time:
how many words did I let him through?

So why not, naked man,
tell the world out loud
you want forgiveness from me.
You want it from each of the crowd.

Yes, scribble this, once and foremost;
you may die of a death heroic:

like in a war, or terrorist attack,
or saving lives
from aliens in a rocket.
You may die as soon as I said.
Naked man held forgivings, but no pocket.

~agam

Poet’s Note

How does one measure regret.

Like the speaker... when would your empathy become tyranny if it’s kept on a leash ? (or is it already there?)
What mourning befits someone who dies off-script?

And would you ever die wanting... but never knowing if you were worth anything at all?

~agam

like one, this goes and comes too often:
"Real thieves wear suits, with a face often too bright,
judge they claim are judging the beauty of any face as trite,
but the noise of thoughts hurts their ear,
and close to them often hear—

'Uglier their eyes, failing to keep up with the complexity of a face as an art,
seeing the blur they hate overtime, and hate twitches their brows apart...'"

~ agam

Author’s Note:

I didn’t set out to explore any grand theme this time (as i often do), just a kid trying to write a poem. But as the kid played with the structure, I realised he was creating something... something where the form wasn’t just supporting the message
it became the message.

Think of a Möbius strip (a surface with only one side) where you keep moving forward yet always end up where you began. The poem engineered itself into an unending single lined circular poem where judgment, perception, and misinterpretation twist infinitely, with no resolution. I kept trying to break out of it, but my curve always tangented back to the same path... and thus I realised the loop itself was the point.

For this one, i tried going less on beauty and more towards perception folding back on itself, a kind of feedback loop entrapped system, maybe. Well you see, ugly eyes don’t really see, they skim, they blur, they simplify. Faces become patterns, patterns become judgments, and thoughts recycle themselves unnoticed. ‘Progress’ is just a familiar path walked again, a strip too subtle to notice until it’s too late.

Now, I’m not sure if I’ve created a poetic equivalent of a complex system or just a glorified loop in disguise (feel free to drop your thoughts). Either way, I’ll keep refining this structure and see how long it loops... if nothing else, it’s enough of a "something buerger” worth another episode.

Read it once, and you’ll land where you started.
Read it again, and you’ll wonder if you ever left.
Read it long enough, and... well, good luck finding the beginning.

Was this attempt at doing something new worth it? That’s your part dear reader :)
Suggestions? Yes, please. I’m all ears (or perhaps eyes XD). Thanks for stopping by, and if you’re still looping through the poem, I apologise... or maybe, you’re welcome?

Cost corrodes corrections, confessing careless cry,
Downpour destroys downhill, death decays dry.

Entitlement envelopes, erasing escaping ease,
Fencing fractured factions, forcing fools for fees.

Guilty group gnaws, gesturing— 'graveyard ground',
Heartless humans hunger... Hold hands to hound.

"Immature, indecisive, incompetent," yet insisting initials each ink,
Jarring juvenile justice, jolted by jaded jinx.

Karma kisses kickbacks, killjoy Karamazov knocked.
Loving lost lullaby, leveling loneliness locked.

Mellowed by madness, mocks the mountain might,
Nonexistence new nostalgia, narrows 'narcissistic night'.

Opheliac odour in opera, outcry overflows obscene,
Pierced petals perish, plunging promises pristine.

"Quitting quests quickly, quaking under quiver?"
Ranging, roving rights, rolling roundabouts river.

So such struggling Sisyphus, strolling sledged slope,
Timeless training tirelessly, tearing toward top trope.

Ugly uphill units, urging unaffordable upgrade,
Vastly visited vagueness, voicing values vade.

"Worthless, what we worry," worrisome waiting while,
Xenoglossic xcellent explains, exuding excluded xenial.

Yet you yearn yourself, to yield youthful yays,
Zealous of zingy zones, zipping zenith— Z to A’s.
© agam

Author’s Note:

This poem has truly been a labor of love, and I can’t even begin to describe how much time and effort has gone into it (like a lot!). You wouldn’t believe how much it has evolved from its initial version (initial version was so complex that i myself didn’t knew what it meant). Yes! I’ve made a conscious effort to reduce the abstractness as much as possible, and I really hope I’ve hit the right note this time. (At the very least, that’s my hope)

You’ll notice that the poem contains references, such as to Sisyphus, Ophelia and Karamazov. I highly encourage you to look them up, it will feel like a reward when you make the connections to this piece.

This poem was crafted with great care, but if you spot any areas that could use improvement or think there are any possible upgrades, I’ll be glad to hear some suggestions.

On a side note, I’ll be going offline for the next month or two for academic purposes . I hope you’ll understand, and I’m grateful to each of you for reading this. Wishing you all the very best in your own journeys.

Yes, I'm growing old, with seconds, minutes, and hours.
Soon, this bud of 17 will bloom into the 18th flower.

I've thought of marking this special moment in words,
But it's 9:36 PM—so little time left, it hurts.

With 9:45 on display, I scribble, I ponder, I wait,
Every rhyme feels heavier as I near this heavy date.

Another hour closer... to the so-called 'grown.'
Funny that I'm celebrating 10 PM as if it's a milestone.

Don't distract, Agam! You have the whole poem to write.
A tough life is waiting—this is the first fight.
What do you mean you're scared? It's nothing but a special poem.
Okay, just follow me, these are the steps when getting numb.

Even at 10:36 tonight, this poem format is known as a couplet,
But what matters most is meaning; limitations are but supple.

Write down your lines and rhyme words and phrases.
If you can't find the rhyme, use Google, get praises.

Almost eleven now, the heart is already telling loud,
Still alone, I'm drafting and editing for my reading crowd.

Even pondered in the past how this time will fleetingly flock,
By 'time,' I mean turning 18, not the 11 PM on the clock.

Yes, I had wished a lot to be better than what I am,
At 11:11 on the clock, even then, now, and in exams.

But I think I’ve shown growth, maybe not in fields intended,
Maybe not in exams, but as a human—splendid!

11:30 PM—Every word I write feels like writing a will of my own,
A collage of all past 'me's who are afraid yet alone.

Eighteen minutes left, and I’ll leave these people behind,
Might carry the same name, but with a different mind.

It’s 11:55 now, and the midnight bell nears,
A new chapter begins—farewell to these years.

Happy birthday to me! The clock counted twelve,
Same old Agam, old-ing into a new self.

From my heart:

Yeah, it’s my birthday today, and I’m turning 18. To be honest, it feels weird—like stepping into a new chapter while still having backlogs from the old ones. People make such a big deal about 18, as if some grand transformation happens overnight. But here I am, still me, just with a little more weight to the word "adult."

And yup, the poem was written in real-time, and those timestamps are all real. It’s crazy that I managed to pull it off, but I’m so glad I did.

Thank you for reading. You’ve all been such an important part of this journey, and I’m incredibly lucky to have you by my side. Here’s to the next chapter, and I’m glad to have you all with me as it unfolds.

But wait—who selects the part, hmm?
Deciding the rise of tides
while words barely land?

Blurred faces,
slipping phrases.
Ink spilling into water, twisting, fading—
As if it doesn’t matter,
but things dissolve.
Something changes, Everything shifts.

Who knows which went where?
A little of 'you' here,
a tiny 'me' there,
Sum of 'us' to share.
Somehow, someway, everywhere.

Draped in a disguised hide,
adding each pulled-up tide.
1, 2, 5: high ride,
3, 4: sinking low—
O’ the demanding script,
calling these five a show.

And so it moves, doesn’t it?
We sure do: tightrope walkers—
wobbling on a stick of this and that,
on our own imaginary line,
teetering to step forward.
The theater knots itself,
half-lit, half-understood,
applauding the performance,
orthogonal to their foresight.

We’re all in this together,
together apart each head.
To think "you aren’t enough"...
Smile again, dumhead :)

© agam

From the Pen

You know that feeling when you’re dealing with something, and deep down, you just know you’re going to fail?
I’ve been feeling that a lot recently. My past self would have vented until there was nothing left to say, expecting that, when things like this happened, I—usually so pessimistic—would sink into the depths of depression. But now, as I find myself at what feels like the lowest point in my life, I feel strangely…
calm?
Why am I comforting myself?
Why am I doing my best to get through this?
Why am I not focusing on how badly everything has fallen apart?
Instead, I’m actively trying to enjoy and observe my life, like a spectator in my own story. Life hasn’t gone the way I thought it would, and oddly enough, neither have I. This might just be my body trying to help me through it, and that’s no less than any blessing.

So, here I am, trying to learn from the mistakes that led me here, hoping to handle it in a way that makes my future self proud.

Thank you so much for reading this poem—your time means a lot to me. I hope you have a wonderful day.