This world is anticipating my toll on survival,
Fidgeting through new ways to punish me.
Why, just ’cause I beg to differ?
Just ’cause I was born a different mind?
I don’t know.
And I’m sorry; sorry that I thought I could change something,
anything that is gulping this world down its sore, prickly throat.
To make a difference, which made me look different.
Am I the new face of sullen enthusiasm,
which made thousands of ’em who dared to,
let back into dark dungeons, alone?
They call me names,
Plastering my poetic arse on the walls of hatred.
Spiking up my every move,
Regressing my very means of existence.
But once you hear the all-enveloping humanitarian cries,
of not mirth but aggression,
You will find me in the deep dungeons you put me in,
With an all-knowing smile.
By Archana Pingal, India
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