Obsessed with being called the greatest lover,greatest parents or something else..
Voices pours out, asking questions..
Why? Why then? Why not me,why not us..
And in the silence,all I can do is show..
The bare me,the broken me,to you,
Perfected faces,cold man,walking with kingly attitude,
That is what world holds,
But the moment it comes to the wounded me,the child who never got time to even grow up,
Before loosing anything he holds dear,
That,no one sees .
The trembling back,as thunder crashes..
The burning eyes when summer dances..
The painful eyes when fog covers light..
The broken teeth,fragile bones..
When I show it,they just turn the faces away,
And point fingers,screaming that I am an imposter .
I can never be the one they worship or love..
And in the lonely nights, I laugh at the obsession
