I dreamt as a kid.. I sang a song.
I sang tales of the future.
Stories of travels
to bays of nature.
Stories of handsome men
They saved me from all their torments.
I sang about the world,
and the love it hold.
Unaware of tremors
Of souls sold.
Of course, I didn’t know then what I know now.
About fallacy and pretence.
About cussing and hurting crows.
Yet I sing through the night.
But now my songs accompany wet pillows,
With infatuations imposed.
A different story it is now
Story of struggles and scars.
Of lessons and days marred.
But you know, you still got to sing your tune,
Kindle for inner warmth.
You sing, for your different soul,
Because soul’s need to be heard.
To be emancipated, to grow old.
So dream and sing.
Be peculiar and quirky.
Whatever you do,
Don’t live for the world’s mercy.
It is already a scary world. No need to add to what’s already lost.