• tanushreekarmakar 5w

    A Hundred Years
    of tenure stamped on our birth certificates...
    To be torn between robes and thongs,
    blinded by variables
    to play stone-paper-scissors,
    with love, life and deadlines.
    A hundred years,
    to fight for forbidden love under starry nights,
    stab in broad daylight -
    donning a bubble gum pink smile.

    A hundred years...
    halftime feels sagelike.
    Some die before they're pronounced alive,
    many are fed to maggots and worms -
    dying an excruciating death
    unnoticed in the neighbour's lawn.

    Celebrated are only those with a piece of pie,
    the one's with Pedia citations, and
    a blue-tick alongside.
    Forgotten are those who lived otherwise,
    stripped out of the system,
    nude, sometimes without any muse
    a thumb-size toe tag tied all wrong -
    six feet under,
    separated from everything one ever felt or
    possessed, by merely a piece of ply.