They make us climb as fast as we can.
The one who climbs the fastest gets to shine.

And the rest of us?
We watch from the bottom.

We stand there while the toppers glow.

We are all told to climb higher.
"Keep moving." "Don’t stop."
Because if you do, someone else will reach the top before you.

It’s a race.
It always has been.

While the one at the bottom of the hill
Carries a chain of shame,
A reminder that they will never be good enough.

Their splintered knees,
Their trembling hands,
Obey every command thrown their way.
They accept the painful words,
Beaten with rods to push them forward.
No one ever stops to check on them.

My legs have turned to wood.
They refuse to move.

My legs have turned to wood because of the many years
I was told I wasn’t good enough.

And so, my legs became harder and harder every year.
Now, they have turned to wood.

Waiting for a hand to pull me up.
But no one looks.
No one understands.

While the world claps for the students who make it to the top,
They turn to me and ask,
"Why don’t you just try harder?"

I promise you... I really did.

But I wasn’t made to win like the rest of them.

And yet, they don’t even spare a drop of water
For those left behind.

We are forgotten.

Welcome to our school system.

सपना कभी सही राह नहीं होता, अपना हमेशा सही इंसान नहीं होता,
कभी गैरों पर भरोसा करके देखो, कभी क़ाबिलियत से आसमान छूकर देखो।
राहें तो बदलती हैं, पर इरादे नहीं बदलने चाहिए,
विश्वास भी टूटे, तो खट्टे आमों में, मिठा वाला ढूंढ़ना चाहिए।

You spoke love, red.
Made my face turn red.
But what’s with the
love for absinthe, red?
Made your face turn red.
Turn the TV off,
Cincinnati lost again, red.
Put the knife down,
before it turns red.
Maybe I should shut my mouth—
now it flows red.
Tragic.
A sound I can’t hear,
a moment I can’t see,
blue,
and then red.