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WHAT IS THIS LIFE?
These days,
Life is nothing more,
Than a cigarette,
To be puffed and thrown away.
Morning sky has heavy clouds,
Looks as if,
Some clowns are out to please me.
All night long,
I battled sadness,
Amidst busy people,
Preparing for fasting,
While a dog also kept whining,
With its tail wagging,
Imploring all around,
To pat him and give him some food.
Songs and music,
With a friend,
Worsen the blues inside me.
Stella* once said:
"Life's a bitch",
And as the light spreads I agree,
With what she said,
Casually,
While trying to impress me,
With her English charms.
And there was also Yank*,
Who used to rant that life sucks!
How she loved to be called Frippy*.
And as I step inside a hall,
I find some guys who,
Make fun of Faraz'* poetry.
My cigarette packet drops,
From the pocket of my jacket,
As I too laugh in such company.
But like I said,
Life these days,
Is nothing more,
Than a burnt out fag,
But, why am I so sad?
Why this conflict between joy and grief,
Almost daily...
Will someone pause and tell me?
