Of their wretched lives,
People are crowd
Who don’t stand out;
They hum the same song,
And shoehorn all along,
Till they feel safe amongst each other,
And don’t bother
About anyone’s radar,
Not even for a man,
Who sits quietly in the corner
With a broken coin,
Judging a plethora of their wasted lives –
How no one stops to figure themselves out,
As meaningless lives are spilled every day,
On roads their legs could never build,
How reckless they are to their kin,
Unspoken are they to their own kind,
Doing what’s already been done,
In their own time,
And following that age-old order
Of people without minds,
Taking cover under their own failures
To fuel someone else’s definition of success.
What’s the rush?
Where’s that bus
That were to guide you home?
A crowd never feels at home,
But finds their rest
Amongst people who look just like them.