I live in a house, not a home.
Some people are not bound by love, but a mere genome.
They have no one to talk to, pour their heart to—
They live a lonely life, surrounded by all.

Money can't buy everything; it can't buy you love, care, and concern. Some of us have it all, and yet we mourn.
We mourn knowing that we have what a common man wants—
We live with the guilt and burden of supposedly having it all.

Our big houses are etched with intense loneliness and ghosts of the past.
Cry in the dark, but don't you dare talk or broadcast.
These pretty walls hide dark secrets—
Secrets that get lost in the money and fame game.

Some of us maybe don’t crave a rupee as much as we crave a hug.
Silence becomes our best friend, and misery a drug.
Will the affection I seek ever find my street?
We live with this plight, and nobody knows.
For if you have some laurels in your kitty, does it really matter?