Starting with birth and ending with death Such is the life short and in debt. There's such a moment where The feeling of "If I ruled the world" adheres, When clicking right and vibing with peers The coat of attractive life tears. All the fun turns into sins Feels like a fish without fins. It's a torture in every means Where you're left out of every other team.
Behavior , matters I thought O savior , where am I caught? Breaking the silence it made me loud I did somethings of which I'm not proud. It is not the rage , But an unsolved maze, It made me miserable and out of charge For it fooled me with a camouflage.
The echoes council me My mind being unable to flee. All the frustration deposit And I'm out of logic, Not fun but only frolic Some kind of black magic. Now it used me like a montage And I'm now into the camouflage.
there's indefinite chatter among the hallways between the plaster walls that hide the mundane life of a stranger who's about to pull the trigger
for a moment after the bang, there's a silence, the one that leaves a little space behind.
you don't look for the reason but, fight to be the first in line to get the key. fix the hole on the wall and threw away the bloody carpet for a new one, draw a bath on the newfound space to feel a little less claustrophobic yet it all feels alienated.
swipe left and right to fight the isolation, and wear a facade to look good on a bright screen. you keep telling yourself that you're sapiosexual, but the hidden truth of the universe never turned you on.
a "poem" is born in the murky waters of blood and tears from the unexplored part of town we filter it out to a four-line cliche that reeks mediocrity.
it sells the best when you deprive the meaning, strips down the metaphors to words that rhyme with a heartbreak.
layers upon layers of metaphors don't excite you anymore when the world double-tap to kill the nights behind the walls of an alienated world. pretentious lines feel relatable when depression has green hair and an autotuned voice when you skip all the feelings to fit everything on a squared box for a beautiful feed.
in final desperation to be a prolific poet you sell your ingenuity for numbers. like the way, we've sold our days to survive the mundanity.
Maybe we all are nothing but some slaves to this algorithm of staying relevant. The one where you're forced to like comment and look at a stranger's life to stay relevant on a 6-inch screen or forced to text back and pick up the phonecall to be part of someone else's life. And maybe survival is making just enough money to survive a tomorrow that you don't even know that you're gonna wake up to.