Vicious Cycle

By praharsha Sooraj 

All anticipated eyes,
As I was born with assured cries,
To bring the golden glitters,
And gently emit their bitters.

I thought I was a savior,
But turned out to be a silent favor.
I was given no golden crown,
But a sword — turned into a clown.

The same golden dust,
I was told to thrust —
To chase, yet stay in silence,
While my dreams begged for alliance.

Those treasured papers said no,
To all the talents I wished to show.
How do I commence the journey,
To yield what I could not wield — the money?

They invested in me,
For what they needed to see,
Setting the gap far too large,
For what I'm obliged to charge.

The so-called creators,
The profit-driven educators —
Can't blame — might be the sun,
Of a family wishing debts to be none.

Created me a healer,
Wished to serve the world as a feeler.
But to my overseer, just a concealer,
An appealer for my family, to my seeker a dealer.

I injected the child of my seeker —
Made myself a leaker,
Of poison from the vicious cycle,
The inevitable chronicle.

Leave the children of glory,
To find their own story.
May this business loop cease,
With a simple swoop for peace.

Let the educator be the knowledge,
The healer the provider, never the pillage.
Let each soul be a Passionist,
Not an exploited capitalist.