The weekends

The weekend is always full of parties, work, and other stuff. Every weekend has some different story to tell. This poem is written as a part of my memory for one of the weekends that I had spent at friend’s place.

In late evenings, discussion over the bottle of wine,

Sometimes heated arguments with the friends about tomorrow’s sunshine,

Some of them are lost in music, and some are singing their own song,

Some are busy and thrilled in narrating their stories, and some are taking the place of corner,

Holding the hands of each other and hoping the night to be long,

Some of them are drunk, but keep saying that they are not drunk at all,

They are confused whether they are in or out, but still trying to keep themselves alive with the night,

Even they are surprised why the things are gaudy, or maybe they have lost their sight,

Some of them are like us my friend, there but not exactly,

Almost quite and sketching the memory of night on the piece of napkin,

Because we love to collect the memories of every single day,

So we will have an idea what the life have already said, and what we have to say.