Sometimes when you read a fiction,
It feels like you are narrated in every line.
Every punctuation howls your tale,
You cry, as there is no end to the sufferings,
You feel pity from the first para,
Where it all begins.
As with every passage, there is a different sight,
Your mind holds an opinion about your own life.
Things defining you aren’t what you felt,
In a wink, it’s all darkness.
The pages you turn makes a commotion,
In your presence, it was all going in motion.
You whimper as you never wanted someone to feel,
That you aren’t an uncommon human being.
You read further to be able to recognize yourself,
As the book was plaguing,
so you put it back on the shelf.