Why should I read their books,
Why listen to tales of dark words?
At every step, they question my caste,
Who am I, why heed their words?
Why listen to tales of dark words?
At every step, they question my caste,
Who am I, why heed their words?
Ink trapped in the pages of books,
Defames my caste, paints it black.
Neither did I write them,
Defames my caste, paints it black.
Neither did I write them,
Nor were they made for me,
Then why bind me with these books’ stick?
Then why bind me with these books’ stick?
Those who wrote them,
For whom they were crafted,
Let them keep these books guarded.
They push me away, into the fire of hate,
These books are not mine,
Let them keep these books guarded.
They push me away, into the fire of hate,
These books are not mine,
They’re alien. I’ll choose my own path,
I’ll write my own story.
No need for their ink, nor their world,
My truth will be shaped by my pen.
I’ll write my own story.
No need for their ink, nor their world,
My truth will be shaped by my pen.
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Author:
Devender Kumar (
Offline) - Published: July 20th, 2025 00:28
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
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