How lucky they must be!

An ebullient young couple,
Strolling down the street,
Holding hands tightly,
And smiling while they speak.

A blue Cadillac passes them,
In which a “star couple” they could see,
The couple coveted the lavish stars,
“How lucky they must be”

The stars in the Cadillac,
Notice the couple on the street,
Who are holding hands tightly,
And smiling while they speak.

The liberty to roam the streets,
So unbridled and free,
How unrestricted their life is,
“How lucky they must be”

 

 

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The Tightrope Walker

Parched was his throat,

and his stomach funnily growled,

the sound of which was drowned,

in the pandemonium of the crowd.

 

His feet started to tremble,

the sun too strong on his slender body.

He couldn’t do this anymore,

walking on this thin rope high up in the air.

 

He pleaded with his eyes,

but a glare from his master silenced him, perhaps forever.

 

One more step and he felt light, his body floating through the air,

one last thud, and he smiled, his sorrows over for a lifetime.

Cause Everybody Can’t be Me.

Some people talk only when it seems fit,

Maybe they’re too busy;

I think I’m slowly getting the hang of it,

That everybody can’t be me.

 

I don’t get it the way I want,

Maybe I should be flexible and free;

But that sick feeling always pokes around,

That everybody can’t be me.

 

I can only act like I belong,

Maybe I’m not what they see;

It’s a constant reminder while moving along,

That everybody can’t be me.

 

I hate to goof around and give  fake smiles,

It’s not my cup of tea;

I quit when it dawns after a while,

That everybody can’t be me.

 

I wonder if people think the same,

Maybe they have their own plea;

Sometimes I sigh, “Oh what a shame!

That everybody can’t be me”.

 

We want birds of the same feather. We can probably never be in a place where getting along with others will take nothing but being oneself. So what do we do then?

 

Well if it were up to us, we’d have the whole world dancing on it’s toes. We like people for what we think of them and what we’d like them to be rather than for who they are. We create a mental version of them which is strewn by our experiences with, and opinions of them. We engage in constant conflict to match this version to reality and feel frustrated otherwise.

 

Everybody has their own approach, their own perspectives, making them unique. But we often forget to acknowledge that,  because we cozily cuddle in our comfort zones, smugly believing we’re right.

 

We try to change them to our liking in order to feel comfortable. We thus miss out on a brand new personality that may open our eyes to a different perspective.

 

Change makes us uncomfortable. First opinions stick. Someone is termed ‘Different’ , quicker than ‘Unique’. People take time to identify potential, slower than they call names.

 

But one should have faith in one’s own ideals. They are to be preserved and cherished. Only the worthy deserve to hear them. In fact, they’re the only ones who can value them.

 

Change is important. It’s quite necessary. When we’re not around birds of the same feather, it’s okay to adopt another persona, but it’s foolish to mask our personality.

Hands in my pocket, I’m off on a lonely stroll,

Accompanied only by the whims of my heart, and the voice of my soul;

 

The thoughts, they twirl and fog my mind,

As I tread forward, I leave them all behind;

 

A flickering streetlight, struggling to stay,

Although clouded by leaves, fights to light my way;

 

The asphalt rests in the calm of the night,

Glinting shyly in the tangerine light;

 

These streets bring about a tranquil mood,

Offering a cordial welcome, not once they’re rude.

 

And if I maintain quite, I think I hear,

The innocent stories of my yesteryear;

 

The streets on which I laughed and played,

Hold sweet memories that never fade.

 

I’m lost in a world that seems so pure,

A little child again; with curiosity galore.

 

I snap back to reality, I heave a loud sigh,

I take a deep breath and look up at the sky;

A snowball in pitch black, the moon shines bright,

I wonder if it knows that it’s not its own light;

It scans the ethereal sky; but not a single star it finds,

Least it knows; it’s a polluted world, with polluted minds.