So called meritocracy
False illusions of democracy
Labelled by society
To fulfill this prophesy that it has foreseen in me,
What I see is: that I refuse to believe,
this is all I can amount up to be,
Decided on the course of my life,
Based on my colour, culture and class.
Add gender, religion and demographics.
I don't stand a chance.
Are you telling me I can't do this, can't bring myself up?
From where I am constantly belittled,
By stereotypical positions.
An anomalie I aspire to be,
This knowledge I gain will guide me,
I want that day to arrive,
Where you judge me,
Shun me,
Tell me I'm wrong.
Then to see jaws hang open,
To see those stuttering like the ignorant fools they are,
Embarrassed red tinted cheeks,
Shaking heads in disbelief,
"I... I... I'm sorry, I tthought that, it it looked like"
Allow me to bring you back to reality,
Your status and power does not give you the right to judge.
You have a right to your opinion,
But take a look on what you base it upon?

Left helpless by my inability to help you,
What good
is talking about something that's on your mind,
What good
is me providing an ear,
Shedding with you a useless tear,

Your words ignite anger,
and together we burn in a crazy hatred filled blaze.
High on hurt and intolerable pain,
Lusting on scenarios to exact our blood, thirsty,
unrealistic revenge.

What we'd do if we had the means,
If you had the money to escape,
And could write your own fate,
You problems would abate.

Hearing your sobs turn dry,
Shaking, left shattered, broken and weak.
The cycle begins once again,
You pick yourself up and leave,
Unable to turn the other cheek.

Till next time then,
so farewell,
It kills me knowing that when it comes around,
I'll be with you reliving this cruel truth,
But alas together we'll hopelessly plod through.

As you return to your prison,
Problems unresolved,
I sit with a heavy heart,
Fearing your safety,
Saddest of all; not from all the problems,
But the dread of what will happen if you lost yourself.

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

the cosmic balance of all life
    is perhaps beyond my perception
  but still may hold the key
         to why love and hate are so **** close
and why i never win at bingo.

It got so high
Yesterday
That at first
My mom told me that
I just didn't have to do my homework.

99.4

I lay in bed
And cocooned in covers
Because
My skin was warm
But my blood felt like
Liquid polar bear.

99.9

I got bored.

100.3

My mom took my temperature.

101.4

She ran a bath
And the thought
It would be smart
To make it
Feel
Like
Liquid
Polar bear
Again.

102.2

Mom says I hummed.
So she thought I was
Better.
I got out of my
Liquid
Polar
Bear
Tub.

101.7

I climbed back into bed.

102.5

Mom got on a work call.

102.8

I fell asleep.

103.1

My heart rate went down.

103.4

I woke up.

103.6

I

103.7

Couldn't

103.8

Breathe

104.1

104.1

104­.1

But mom was on her work call.

Mothers don't allow their young daughters
to experiment with make-up until old enough
but I had no choice but to bring a brush to my face
and paint the canvas to hide each blemish.
Long sleeves, loose scarves, fitted jeans,
anything to hide the daily playground ritual.  
The swing I experienced was not hanging from chains
but rather from the tightened fists of someone I once knew.
I found solidarity underneath the weeping willow tree
as we sobbed together in the cool air of November.

To the hopeful ones:
I am unavailable.
Emotionally.

Last night I danced like my dad
with a girl who resembled a dictionary definition
I read not long back.

Graceful eyes that could
stop traffic with a blink
and engaging lips that
would smile to sooth the pain of
the midday, gotta-get-back-home-now,
commuters whom step
on pedals with haste.

I lied. My dad can’t dance, so last
night I made a fool of myself
in front of a girl who resembled
a dictionary definition I read not
long back.