By Sanskriti
The world is a 3-dimensional cage,
Iron bars on every stage.
One made of logic, neat and tight,
Another of rules dressed up as right.
They say it's progress. What? code and steel,
Equations carved in zeros and zeal.
But I see bars where others see grace,
A prison masked as a sacred place.
They tell me: Leave your metaphors,
This world won’t wait for open doors.
There’s no room for rhyme and dream,
In labs and suits and data streams.
So yes, I tried. I wore the grey,
I bit my tongue and played their way.
I held a pen, but not for verse
Just figures, facts, the universe.
But how long can you cage a soul
That speaks in stanzas to stay whole?
That ache to ink the pain she hides,
That finds in metaphors where truth resides?
To some, a poem is idle art,
A hobby dressed in fragile heart.
But for me it’s fire, breath, and sting,
The only song I need to sing.
And if you say “choose logic, be wise”
Save your breath, kind sir
I won’t trade dreams for a Nobel prize.
Call me foolish. Call me strange.
I’d burn the cage before I change.
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