The clock keeps ticking,
your peace is shunning,
like a hamster on a wheel,
you keep running.
Halting on a sidewalk
seems so sinister,
the lad behind you would scream,
"Hey, let us pass you mister".
Pacing around on streets,
you fade into oblivion,
The neighbour standing in adjacent,
for you is an alien.
You don't know what society means,
all you know is your monotonous routines.
The internet is full of
pretentious and phoney clones,
socializing is far beyond
computers and phones.
Burnt chemicals, toxic waste and cigarette smoke, you breathe in,
Four walled, conjusted compartments, you sheathe in.
You boil in the sun,
you don't know of winds and rains,
you fool, you are bound by the
Cunning Urban chains.
Ever had a moment
to laugh, to dance, to jest?
Ever had the country air
seep in your chest?
The windy rain, making
the green fields sway,
the fall of the night,
the hike of the day.
Yes you lived in rural,
before landing in the fancy town,
but what's in a lifeless life
with a permanent frown?
You sold your peace,
for the greed of money,
you were the jolly king,
now you're a slave in agony.
For how long will you wear
this bogus mask?
The slaves of the urban,
for how long? I ask.
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Thoughts of a Juvenile
PoetryWords are sharper than knife they say. Yes it is true. Some perfectly moulded good words can both make and break a heart easily. A poem is a group of such perfectly moulded words given wings to fly. They fly through the mind and heart easily. A hob...
