I told my parents I would go to school,
study hard and give them the life they deserve.
It’s been three years after my degree
and I’m still at their care and mercy.
I’m fleeting like an aimless cloud
switching between menial jobs
like a poor, illiterate, menial wretch.
Running from one interview to the other
swiping new trends from right to left.
Days become years.
Five years and I’m drowning in an abyss of regrets.
Surrounded by dark, gloomy clouds,
floating between dreams and surging sorrows.
Ladened with cloaking responsibilities.
They tell me to keep hope alive but
I think hope is a gentle, calm cover
to shield the heart from bruising further.
Keeping hope alive is a temporary healing
hope does not slap my ego
for waging war against me.
They say I’m a warrior, but
beyond their eyes
I’m a beaten, bloodshot
and wounded soldier in a vale
screaming for rescue but cannot
be heard.
Struggling to heal my wounds
and stand tall again.
