By Ayan Hossain
The plethora of emotions, spontaneous and robust,
Like my frustration, with a little touch of abundance burst.
Story of every middle class person like me or you,
With big hopes in heart but spending life in due.
Chasing passion is taboo here, no place for compassion,
The more we grow up the more our childhood dreams seems utopian.
I wanted to be a writer, a poet in specific,
Wanted to make an identity for me, wanted to dream big.
But is it possible? Now seems the hope is dim,
With my heart filled with neglect and sorrow to the brim.
Is it a crime to chase high? Maybe in the society I live,
Dreams are for rich, and for us to dream is to be alive.
Maybe that’s why today I broke my only instrument-
The typewriter I had, my little solace in life full of torment.
I bid farewell to my only friend, with tears filled in eye.
That night not I only killed him but also cut my wings to fly.
With my broken friend by my side, I cried till 3:00 at night,
It was a cold blooded murder, I felt a part of me died.
Maybe that’s supposed to happen, but the memories still haunt,
“What happened to our promise?” the empty table still taunt.
Neither I write anymore, nor stay awake at night
Cheers to the oppression, at last it has won the fight.
Maybe I was a rebel, maybe that part not alive anymore,
Maybe someday I will become the next door Sharma ji, dead from the core.
So this is my note, last one for those dreamers,
Maybe I am gone, but never let drown your steamers
Filled with hope and joy, though made of paper,
Maybe one day you could be Gold among the glitter.