Ruminating in the visions of what could be,
I mellowed to the burden of the expectations whose existence no one could see.
Lost in a land that convoluted its being into the beauty of forever,
Wearied by the nonchalance of my circumstance, I buried myself in the tireless strive of my endeavours
Metaphors of irony struck their symphony in the tale I forged in,
Enchanting the ones I meet with a smile, submerging and silencing a storm within,
To make hay while the sun shines, they tried to tame my soul,
Alas, the fire within me burned their hands, as they mercilessly tried to reach their goal.
Too loud, too deep, too bold, too meek, often addressed in the synchronicity of dualistic names,
Standing tall in my authenticity, the bewilderment that I held leashed them in their laid game.
Vivid they called, labelling me as unfit, for I did not confine myself in their box that justified my
For I was a wildflower that entrenched itself in the beauty of fierceness, And not compliant to
the societal norms, that wanted me to be broken and frail.
The individuality that I hold, the journey that marks my strife,
In the quest to find myself, I seldom mourn the death of the lost dreams,
Whose existence I rendered with a knife.
To be or not to be is a question that still lies,
But one truth swears its existence in me,
Is my uniqueness is what makes me alive.
We all are wanderers wandering to find our purpose under the reverence of the eternal stream,
To put our heads down, and surrender to him in search of our lost dreams.