This world is subjective
It’s all an illusory perspective
There is no right or wrong
Why can’t I write a song
I know my rhythm,my beats,my space
This is an artform I can easily ace.
Oh,I understand my audience fleeting attention
So,Let’s begin without apprehension
This world is both gloomy and glorious
Songs I listen to,rhythmic,mild and melodious
Our minds are not impervious
Words I hear on streets are hilarious
Hideous Hoarding was a trend
Time has come to pause and play and amend
Everything beautiful or ugly,comes to an end
I know my shape and size
How subtle troubling emotions rise
The beat,the bird and the boy
Words that sink in,I thoroughly enjoy
World is a crazy curious playground
Tell me,how this line has a sweet subtle sound
I love everyone,when they aren’t around
World is a magical instrument
It plays tunes only few can grasp
Yet,I observe,I sense and I shine
My lucky number is nine
I hate that style-a porcupine
Play to my beats
After my frivolous lines repeats
World is inner reflection
It gives a taste of both victory and defeats
Rhyming is my latest muse
Detach,dive and let loose
This world is subjective
It’s all an illusory perspective
There is no right or wrong
Why Can’t I write a song
Shailesh Satire 