I am not broken; the world is.
Every day, it’s a new trend, whether worthless or rich,
Whether Black or white, dull or bright.
Every day is a new battle, a storm in a sea of dreams.
Dreams which get lost among the crowd of mindless bees.

The unfortunate truth is, the world favours aesthetics.
Whether in your work or in your deary beak.
Each day it’s a new goal, whether money, happiness, or ******,
But I ask, where is the genuine, the giddy, and the fulfilled?
Lost in the wildfire of fleeting faces and smoke-choked dreams?

Where are the joyful, the dreamers, and the poets?
Lost in the world of the weary, the cynic, and the skeptics?
But finally, I see the truth, the infallible truth—
Hidden behind the layers, lies, buzz, and noise,
That I am not broken; the world is.

They say love should not be idealized
but isn't love the only thing that deserves to be idealised ?
They say we shouldn't get too attached
but shouldn't we give our all for love
if not then can we call it love at all?

They say don't give your self up for love
but if not for love then what else is there
they say we shouldn't get too tethered to love
but isn't love something to get wrapped for?
oh what i would give to get wrapped in those arms

but why did you left me with this void instead of promised future
was it all in my head?
was I the one dreaming of you while sleepless
was i the one looking at your silhouette during the Sunkissed day
was i the one who felt the tug while you were chained at the bay?

How can one know the end still hope for change
how can i fight against the current of the river
while you were the sea itself
How can i stop myself from burning
when you lit the fire yourself.

I am a sinner,
A sinner who dared dreamt of love,
A sinner whose only sin was to be hideous,
A sinner who did not know it was a sin,
A sin to not be perfect as the world wants.

A beast who never got the beauty,
A dwarf in love with the sleeping beauty,
A frog who did not turn into a prince when kissed,
A Bluebeard without the forbidden room,
A beast who was never a cursed prince, never blissed.

So I tear away pieces of myself to be perfect,
To be someone, not bound by their looks—
The polite boy, the helpful friend, the good guy,
The martyr, the forgotten, the soldier of a hopeless war.
Only to be reminded I’ll always be the loveless one.

Beauty and the Beast, sounds so lovely, doesn’t it?
But I never wanted to be the beast.
It never sounded hopeful or enchanting in my abyss.
All I could hear was pity and sympathy,
Mixed with my demeaning and desperate pleas.

Is love such a luxury,
That one needs to be perfect to reach it?
Or is it just the case for me?
I see everywhere people have it and are happy—
Why are they nowhere close to the ideals burdened upon me?

So I weep and weep without cries and shouts
I weep for one to love me and only me unconditionally
To drown in me as I would for them—
To love me as deeply as I love,
But no one ever does.

In the flow of my words, I found love.
Through these fogged eyes, I saw you.
Through this hated heart, I saw yours.
It was ever so radiant, so genuine, and so divine.
It lit up my world; from the darkness, I awoke.

I was butterflies when you saw flies.
I was lost when I saw you smile.
I ate up my words when they made you cry.
I was ready to eat myself whole
If it meant making you mine.

Then everything choked.
The world lost its color.
I lost the voice I never had.
Your silence made the dead of night recur.
I lost the only song that kept my heart astir.

In this flow of words, I found guilt.
I found heartbreak, and I found everything bleak—
Everything that I was never meant to build.
So I silenced the voice of my cries
That hummed when they saw the gold in your eyes.

In these days of melancholy,
My world feels dull, lifeless, and blue.
My mind races to the days when we talked,
So effortlessly, so full of vigor and hearts glued.
Now I see only the emptiness
And the coldness of a smoke-choked heart

But even in the quiet, you linger near,
A ghost of love I hold sincere.

We eat, we sleep, and we pray.
But who do we pray to?
Is it the ones who promise us salvation
but only give us disease, darkness, and blood?
Or promises of hope, love, and flair?

We starve, we wake, and we sacrifice.
But who do we sacrifice for?
For the ones who only take, take, and take,
and give not even a dime in return?
But only death, darkness, and blood.

I look at the heavens and see light,
but not lights of hope or redemption,
only lights made to blind us and bind us—
to show us we are unworthy of them, of the divine,
to make us feel like envying them is a crime.

I search wide and far for a story without any bar,
a story where they were selfless and not so afar,
a story to help us dream and reach the sky—
not act as silent observers of the moonless sky.
But all I hear are hopeless cries of mine.

Who are they to decide what we are, what I am?
Who are they to decide my fate and worth?
Who even are they, when they haven't felt the pain of existence?
only seen the suffering from their lofty thrones afar?
All I see is cruelty and worthless promises, hearts as black as tar.