If stifled breathes could be counted as Death,
And midnight screams as Life,
I should have been, stuck halfway
Between a hundred wrongs and one right.
There are, morbid ways, to express this thought
Through bloody garb and hand.
I am sorry to say, such boldness of ways,
Are forgotten, like castles built in sand.
My one big grievance, my only complaint
Cannot be confined to letters,
Because, you see, on my ankles and wrists
Are the marks of a hundred fetters.
My voice is but, a charming illusion
It has ceased to be mine
The moment the naïve little girl,
Had stolen a glance outside.
Ignorance is beautiful, ignorance is bliss
The only Paradise, we’ll ever know.
We can whine and pray, cry and wail,
For all the sins we have, to show.
I thought I had made a little mistake,
Bore a measly flaw, or two.
I hadn’t dreamt of the follies of the flesh.
We’re birds of a feather, me and you.
Stuck in the middle, trembling at the top
Bowed and bent, down below.
Missed the podium, lost the mark,
The Almost, always almost alone.
If I be someday, anything more, through all my tiny words,
I might be almost, almost famous, an inch away from whole.