New.

Quite the opposite of

What I feel now.

The sky's ablaze with multicolored lights

Not unlike the mayhemous mess in my mind

I smell a whiff heavenly, from the nearby bakery

The street urchins munching onto gifts of the kind;

It's celebration all around

Wafting through the city, the state, the town-

I guess I missed it.

Believe me,

These celebrations,

These frequent bursts of feverish pleasure-

Have not been the only thing I've missed.

No; there've been jokes my friends crack all day-

Jokes that demand not to laugh with;

But at.

The snide giggles, thanks to my huge backpack,

The references to tv serials I don't give a shit about-

(Seriously, Grey's anatomy?

Yeah man....as if Fifty Shades didn't fuck the life of every living Grey on the planet already.)

Yeah, I missed them.

I missed them all.

And now, only when I turn my neck toward

The obscure windows of the past

Do I realise what they meant.

I'm starting to think I'm an outsider

To this world of pomp and pleasure-

None of it's mine to devour.

Believe me, God's been kind,

Made me meet up

With some good books,

Awesome burgers-

And amazing people.

People that actually cared.

People that judged- at least- with the heart.

People that,

For the first time since I stepped

Through the threshold of college life,

Threw back to the sepia-tinted faces

Faces that belonged to angels

Faces that I shall forever keep in my heart

Till it shrivels up, and beyond-

Faces that belonged to school.

Yes, God has been kind

For if he's smothered me with dust

He's given me some pretty amazing cleaners.

Yeah, he's been kind.

And I mean to be kind too.

If I could just leave my soul behind

And step out of the house

Heartless;

Painless.

If I could just learn how to

Tame the mess in my mind

And leash my spirit to the shackled ruins

That once were the body

Of a 16-year old.

Yeah, I wish.

I wish a lot.

I wish him a Merry Christmas

I wish her a Happy Diwali

She wishes me back-

Without a drop of emotion

Lurking beneath that plastic face.

I'm too frustrated to rhyme

Too frustrated to play with the ocean of words

And try to find the one that suits my whims

Or impresses the audience the most.

Too frustrated to write with purpose

And thus, for the first time in a month,

For the first time since my very first poem-

I write with instinct.

I write with feeling.

I write with thirst.

Because I must.

It's much, much more than a hobby.

It's a need.

A need that's fuelled by the fact that

I've no other outlet for my emotions.

I can feel the sticky slush of anger, hate and strife

Slowly drip from the crevices in my heart

And fall and form a shapeless pool

Near the bottom of my stomach.

And I try to stem the commotion

And watch as it gets worse

And fuels its own embers

With my evergrowing lust.

It's not anyone's fault, I know

People have seen moments worse

But I fucking hold the right to cry

Even if I'm not the first.

I watch as the final remnants

Of the tattered debris that was once a whole year

Ebb away and vanish

Into the all-embracing veil of time

Leaving nothing but empty space behind.

I watch as the bells holler in my ear...

"Happy New Year!"

"Time for a new day, a new way, a new page-

Time for you to change!"

I slowly get up from my bed-

And change what I have to change.

My boxers are now blue.

Happy New Year to you.