I Do. Do You?

Do you ever read your own poetry and feel like how did you even write it?
Do you remember the reason you wrote what you wrote or you just penned things that plagued your mind?
Do you ever fear your depth?

I do.

On days like these when I count my capabilities but find them long lost, and my poems treat me like a stranger on a busy street. I do.
the moon was troubled yesterday and we all loved the view.
I ain't trying to say something deep, just narrating what happened.
I am usually troubled with my own disasters; natural or unnatural I can't really decipher, the burning desires left me without fire. Sometimes I feel too much and sometimes nothing at all. The passerby's pass; leave me with my scars, sadness might turn into art but the sad won't, ever.
Perhaps, the moon is art.
I want to be one.
Everyone can see the moon,
the rose
withering
petals crumbling
down on earth
as if it is a grave
of some star
long lost
in the space
beyond the realms
of my vision
but within
the range
of my imagination

deaths are supposed to be sad.
I am mourning,
for the petal
I lost
or for the one
you peeled off
and I showed you
what stays
beneath my sleeves
beyond my skin
and you caged my consciousness
when you left
with a secret
I trusted you with.

parts of me that met parts of you
melts in my brain
time and again
and I search for metaphors
that can hide the pain
and I stumble upon poems
I once wrote,
in the quiet
and not silent
night
in the unsaid
and not unfelt
feeling
of loving you
and not just parts
of you.

when the moon was troubled yesterday,
I called you.
do you remember your close ones when you feel sad without any reason to be?
do you fear that maybe they are hurt?
I do.

 -The Puzzle Maker