"Every sort of humour takes its life from pain."

Discrimination—
It didn’t begin with Varna, nor with apartheid's chains,
But within the four walls, where love should reign.
Not in the laws, or ancient scrolls,
But in whispered tones, in measured roles.

At home, it begins—subtle, sharp, and sly,
When praise is uneven, and questions fly:
"Why aren’t you fair like her?" "Why don’t you grow tall?"
As if worth is measured by looks, that’s all.

It hides behind laughter, yet cuts like a sword,
When money decides if you're cherished or ignored.
When beauty’s a ticket, and silence is gold,
And kindness is punished, while pride is bold.

We talk of religion, region, caste and creed,
Of outer divides that the papers read.
Yes, they are real, and rightly fought,
But what of the wars at home, left to rot?

What of the brother who’s called "lesser than"?
The sister mocked for not fitting their plan?
What of the friend who never speaks out,
Because love was withheld, replaced with doubt?

The world fights battles the eye can see,
But the heart bleeds in secrecy.
For no law can change a mother’s choice,
Or the unkind edge in a father’s voice.

And those who suffer, suffer alone,
With pain too quiet to be known.
No marches held, no banners flown—
Just broken spirits, fully grown.

So before we chase the global wrongs,
Let’s listen to our own home's songs.
For the worst kind of hate is the one unspoken,
And the deepest wounds are the ones left open.

"Home is where love should begin, not comparison"

Don’t close your eyes on your dreams—
you’ll lose sight of what you believe.
The will of your work is measured by
the work you’re willing to put in.
As I live in a house of emotions,
courting words to plead my case—
bleeding through a see-through face.
A quiet ache, always on trial.

Knowing that the high-and-mighty
Christian is the easiest target to bring down.
Careers cut short— because in short, they
never really knew the Lord.

And me?

I live like the world’s greatest plot twist,
my mind a tornado of thoughts—
every turn unexpected,
every breeze loud with questions.
I’ve known the chill of a cold finger turned
trigger. And felt the weight of a sharp tongue
used as a silencer. As it’s easy to shoot yourself
down the same way you shoot others—whether
whispered or screamed out loud.

But those who follow their worth,
instead of searching for it in the crowd—
those are the ones who stand out.
Aloud.

I am the lonely portrait— a relic of forgotten frames,
paused mid-stroke, as if the brush lost faith in its worth
My skin is painted by many words; learning how to be
tough, taking down note by hesitant note— while the music
always plays in a minor key, an echo with no crescendo,
a verse that never becomes a chorus.

I speak in shadows— duelling the lovely dark that dresses
itself as company. It moves like an earthquake beneath ribs,
quiet until it’s catastrophic, gentle until it crumbles;
paramount and omnipotent.

My tears are potent, but never that important – imported;
as they arrive like a contraband emotion, smuggled in through
brief touches, but never held long enough to feel like home.
No comfort in the snuggle, only a struggle for the struggle —
I carry a thousand reflections, yet none are my own. And still,
I try—stroke by trembling stroke— to repaint my worth without
a muse, without applause, just silence and canvas and longing.

I am the painter’s sad poem— unfinished, unframed; hanging
quietly in a gallery no one walks through anymore.

I just asked you few things to keep in mind,
Before you open your mouth to talk about me.
I have clearly expressed my intension to stay away from the crowd
But how come you forget this every time?
Every time?
I can't fathom this act of yours.
This running circle of arguments just because you don't listen.
I am fed up, fed up, fed up of this.

They spoke of grown-up life with silver tongues,
A path of purpose, paved in knowing light.
Yet here I stand where no sure road belongs,
Each choice a whisper clawing in the night.

Leftward, hunger wears a hollow grin,
Rightward, comfort rots in rusted chains.
Behind me, childhood’s doors are locked within,
Ahead, a maze of questions hums with pain.

The clock beats loud—a war drum in my chest,
Each tick a verdict carved into my skin.
No space to falter, breathe, or second-guess,
No room for those who fear they may not win.

If I am lost, the world will cast me out,
And still, I walk—though drowning in my doubt.