Can you see my wrinkles!
fleshy lines on face like the raw of words that got embedded in my life .

  Yes;                                                                                                                                                                                                     my wrinkles !                                                                                                                                                                                     that want to speak loudly of secrets of my smile rests on my withered lips always.
My smile familiar to you which stemmed from every instant of life that scorched by
Pain of loosing sometimes!
Pain of failure sometimes!
Agony of helplessness at times,
And mostly, by grieves born out of life long fight for existence!

My wrinkles !                                                                                                                                                                                          a few strands of lost courage, broken faith that,                                                                                                                     singed again by the grace of society! The abode of fellow members                                                                                  which I felt my own.
And then,
I stumbled again; world didn’t see the blood oozing from my wound,
We called it humanity, that really a handicapped one !
Not ostensibly telling, but honestly unfolding my scratch pad of fleshy lines!

My wrinkles would tell you that
Once, wearing label of poverty, I was walking around looking for some settlement.
Yes I did climb a little, like a critter but failed against the whipping waves of hardships.
Had done whatever I could, for a few numbers of people like me,  struggling with me whom can be termed as my family.

My wrinkles!
like the shades of a canvas by a fine artist,
drawn out of unspoken words I utter , I uttered,
with myself behind the dark veil of night,
The night that used to exist in my eyes, in the hollow of my chest!
But it doesn’t say that I was a coward but slogging through the mist of a life of a common man on road, I had cut perfectly my wrinkles.

Before,
my wrinkles were buttery scratch on the wet soil of spring,
Where I sowed seeds of a hazel dream of youth
reapen with my sweat, my tears and my imagination.
Hope, still it would show you the dried root of those times,
And would tickle me to feel a pang of pain somewhere in between the wrinkles, in between the words of my scrap pad.
Remembering all ups and down of journey I had.