I woke up from sleep,
To a dream called life.
My ambitions now creep,
On the sharp edge of knife.
The knife of love and responsibility,
of the pressure and rat-race.
Burying all the creativity,
I become the people I face.
The people unknowingly shape,
And influence my thoughts.
Except those who provide the escape,
The dreamers… among the realistic lots.
Those who do and not just preach,
Where the opinion is presented, not the verdict.
Whose actions speak, not their speech,
Like the Secretive Writer who doesn’t worry about conflict.
They compel us to introspect,
And know the ugly truth.
They help us to find and inspect,
Ourselves and our wisdom tooth.
This is for the very talented Secretive Writer whose words play an instrumental role in re-discovering one’s lost self. The maturity of thoughts when mixed with a child’s energy, makes the recipe for the posts on this beautiful blog.