Let them be what they want to be,
Let them do what they want to do,
Let them become hypocrites,
But don’t you follow their footsteps,
And refrain yourself from hypocrisy,
They do them,
You do you,
What’s the point of being all the same?

memories or imagination,
neither nor either,
countless of times,
she thought of you,
both you were,
near and far,
beyond the cage of,
a spinning kaleidoscope,
lies a home,
which was and wasn’t hers,

every season’s deaths,
the little girl sent,
cherry blossom letters,
carrying petals of embrace,
to and fro,
and if time allows,
she’ll follow the wind,
the little ghost,
cries a rain of tears,
the river of happiness,
for she will,
return home soon,
and until then,
she’ll wait for you,
ever so patiently.

crushed between,

the egoistic giants,

and the hypnotizing dwarfs,

we are nothing but,

a mere ball of emotions,

that’s how their eyes sees us.


we allowed the world,

to seep into our prayers,

words and numbers wouldn’t help us,

nor our rivers would flow,

we couldn’t remember,

no,

we have forgotten it,

help seems so far away,

as we let the cruelty of the world,

drugged us,

to cut,

to cry,

to die.



the society dipped it’s pen,

in the red ink,

deciding who we are,

a bunch of crosses,

never a tick,

a bunch of wrongs,

never a right.



yes,

that’s who we are,

nothing but pretentious,

a spoiled brat,

a weakling,

a teenager.