He, who is a poet can never claim a life
Can never cherish a dream, or can never strive
For a hope, for a tiny desire to fulfill
Can assume a pretension of bliss, till
He is alive, for eternity he has to lie!
And I never wanted to be one of them
Behold! My utter despair overwhelmed
Everything, a flower without a stem
alike, I am alive, and I cry!
Passions for love, lust and a family
Accomplish a friend, a partner, sounds silly
To me, thus life is harsh and rude
The intermittent judgement of bad and good
Of a false philosophy may become a poem!
A poet has a mind, he can always blame!
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