I am not a poem,
I am a mayhem,
Of words unspoken,
Of emotions downtrodden.
Sometimes lonesome,
Sometimes wholesome.
Just like a lost lover,
Whose scars are on buffer,
Mind is in gutter,
Thoughts are bitter,
His senibilities suffer,
Heart to get recovered,
Body to get decluttered,
Has lost meaning of dating another colour.
Or may be he just wants to avoid,
Becoming a plight’s sucker.
So he prefers to be a pride’s lover.
I too prefer,
To usher in thunder,
To be a pride’s wonder.
May be that’s a blunder,
But I prefer to wander,
With or without gender.
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