What ifs and should haves

I wish I could write fiction I wish I could craft some fantasy Some unreal pretending to be real A creation I can run to, the imagination I can own So that all the unloved, all the unseen all the unsaved Can be brought back The arguments can be erased, the hatred can be omitted I can forget the part where love ceased, where it all ended The nothing doesnt exist then Someone exists, someone will be there, something will remain And losing it should be impossible It should be there till the end The end can be soon, but 'the something' will stay All assured, everything sure, I will be understood then It can read my smile, if the smile is real. To know my anger is only grief To takeaway all the grief Where love is not stopped, where replacement is impossible  Where the curves and twists and dislikes are not hidden Coz in fiction is truth. Coz what's real is unbearable. The real is painful, it aches, it lies The fiction is mine, only if I cud have one. I

Tuberculosis is all around here, the very place we exist,whereever we are. It destroys all our designs, affects many things, it keeps us away from our work, people, specially from 'then friends',  relationships, career. Even takes away all the smiles, replace them with grins, unpleasant ones. It involves oppression, for you will be shrunk to the very definition of the illness, it involves people passing comments, uneasy questions, some will appear as saviors, some give motivational speeches , the illness has everything, the power, the reach,the bacteria got a way with everything that happens with you. When the patient takes the responsibility of sticking to the treatment, to the very traumatizing treatment, when we mask ourselves to not let that bacteria go anywhere else but get killed inside us what we get in return is a long list of wrong assumptions about the same. The medical reason for physical isolation maybe unavoidable but what cannot be understood is the mental isol

They couldn't  write it all Just so how much,  they decide Coz writer is the word, the box But wat they havent written Are stones in her coat's pocket Drowned. Burnt with no trace Hung, a letter remained Dead. Coz dead ones outnumber But where they thinking about death in detail so much? Or was the only aim  to not live anymore So as to unsave some love So as to not hinder some ways So as to not be laughed at So as to stop the pain Or maybe they were all murders, Just so we didn't know that proved deaths are still not proved Maybe its you who killed, maybe you are in hiding coz u know u murdered So u join when they say, they killed themselves But wen they wer alive they said each other to not die anymore. You still killed them and now when I say they need to be heard, you say, cant hear, they r dead. U don't say u killed, u say they are dead. But why did u kill?