The kind of stories I want to tell,
I do not know If,
I will ever be able to tell them as they are.
To say a poor man is poor,
I will tell you about him,
And the things he did to endure the day,
And fill his belly with food.
I will tell but I will hope,
The man finds his happiness soon.
I know it will make my stories false.
But I will be truly happy then.
Feel this art we create with lives,
These lives are of humans like us.
We will pinpoint differences later,
For now, they are just like us.
I don’t want to be proud of something,
Which came out of someone’s miserable days.
I would have written about my life,
But this boredom rules the king.
Picking up a piece from a life,
And holding it against voices and opinions,
It is cruel when it emits satisfaction to the ego.
All while their origins remain the same way they were.
Our boring live must be content,
With the little crux we have.
Ordinary things are beautiful too.