Words are all I have.
But, I can’t promise,
promise, if my words would be loaded with honey to sweeten your ears
dipped in intoxicating wine to make you lose sense and self,
From quite a long while,
I’m trying to fit in.
the words I’m using, I can’t say, if they have been picked wisely,
carefully from my words pool.
I won’t be surprised,
If you find them fool’s gold.
If they all seem deep from the surface but shallow from inside.
they are the shiny collection of characters,
diligently put together to form the specious expression,
A statement this world wants to listen, I reckon.
I’m putting effort to sing the rhythm of words
to which the people around me want to dance on.
from the day I have been trying to fit in,
My original words are never heard carefully and are lost somewhere.
And until I recover them,
I’ll keep using the words,
Words, I have borrowed from this world,
to become who they want me to be like and not what I’m from inside.
Words are nothing but a trump card.
A card, people often use to play their trick and win the game.
A Game which is always theirs and never mine.
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