Walls are closing in,
Everyday I am here
I smother myself a little,
Yet I shoehorn myself in
Into the world’s most hated place;
When you are not in love,
Everything turns into distaste.
Aren’t we checking into a stockade
Of chasm to find our quiet?
Our loud resides across the meads.
We flock on a patch of land
That a barking herdsman steers.
If you think you know about life,
You have known about freedom;
It’s the hell you choose to overlook
Where people show up everyday,
Despite what it has to offer.
It’s worse than the puff that kills you slow,
Because you are dead all the time.
It is the mask of pretence,
That fake smile of love
We hold to hide the epithets
We cry before leaving our beds,
It is that glance at the mirror,
Before wrapping a noose around our necks,
That prepares us for the hangman at work,
And we choose death every time –
It’s the curse of our life.
Lucky are men who wallow
In fortune all their life,
And don’t have to lift a finger
To pick that coin,
Or the ones who are in love,
They don’t see the revulsion behind,
And don’t mind being sucked into someone else’s life.
I pity them more than us,
Because they are blind to the horror around;
Their minds are yet to register the wrongs in their right.
The world might have erected hopeless buildings
To hole up lives of crime,
But we have created our own prisons
To walk down there daily, to kill our time.