The alarm has stopped ringing
And, I want to get out
I want to smell the white dahlias
And see the blooming Bougainville
But I got to hold tight
For it won't be right.

Morning stroll has taken a troll
For god's sake, I am bored at home
Doing nothing has become an ideal chore
And now, I feel like fat Thor.

What situation is this
When the air is right
But we haven't earned the celebration right

I miss those gleaming laughter therapies
But I won't risk my family hierarchy
My hands are trembling;
My eyes are dim and white
But I manage to pull through a smile for those at the frontline...

                   ~NIKITA MANSINGHKA

We are a hurled pawn,
A piece of trajectory and envoy,
Trapped in the hologram,
With nowhere to escape
We are reaching out; begging to     be let out.
There is a force, a force which
Is pushing us.
Pushing towards the dead-end.
The end looks quaint and weary;
With a queer sense of remorse.
The pristine core looks obliterated;
With a convoluted Carte Blanche..

                ~NIKITA MANSINGHKA

I am Quarantined.
Quarantined, by the hands of humanity
I open my little shutter,
Only to stare in the empty void,
Total Darkness, that's all I find,
I scream and shout
Longing for someone to hear,
But what I am going through,
Is nothing that one can care
I watch everything, my little
Shutter moves frantically,
Trying to take in every moment.
I suppress myself, but to no gain.
I wait for the moment to step out.
But only to be put back again,
More strongly, more rapidly
I struggle and suppress
Trying to break open the chains that
Bore me,
Only to find out that it's locked,
Locked with a key, that is
Yet to be found,
Or lost somewhere,
Lost in the dark.....

                       -Nikita Mansinghka

Those merry beautiful eyes
Are now dim and white
Those playful giggles have now
Turned into gossiping delight
Colorful rainbows no longer provide
an ode to Joy
Happy faces now seem just a
Bizzare antique toy

What age has now dawned upon?
Where even the rain comes uninvited
And guests are no longer gods.

I recall those days
When paper boats were a joy
And not everyone looked like a coy.

I sit on my Italian marble
Thinking of those filthy muddy roads
Where a smile was not a formality
But rather a voluntary chore...

                 ~NIKITA MANSINGHKA