Life by my eyes.

The winds dance with a rhythm too loud,
The trees shudder as they frown,
The clouds so white though they drown,
In the endless sky filled with screeches and howls,
The people walk past the beggars,
Both of them seem so equal,
The only difference which makes a wall,
One forgot their dignity,
while the other pretends to not.
The beings who walk have hope in them,
Which shatters day by day,
The sun shines above them like a mockery,
Belittling them in all their glory.
The grass is not greener on the other side,
It may be dying there,
With no one for it to look upon,
And no one to care.
The light at the end of a tunnel is a lie,
A myth which is so popularized,
The fake and false and ugly hope it gives,
It's all just a spectacle made from our lives,
The universe is a writer,
and we are the characters,
Our life is a conversation,
For the others to understand.
And while you sit and wonder,
If you've really achieved it all,
just look back and see,
What you've done and what not.
You'll find the little fragments,
Which you thought were so useless,
And now they are your enemy,
Which you left behind.
It is not a lie,
Life is unfair,
We were brought in this world we didn't ask for,
And shown the rules to follow,
Sculpted and shaped in the way they want,
And deluded us in lies to make us care,
“Look, that's the boy who didn't follow,
  He was kicked and hit and hated too much,
  And that's why you should stay quiet and  tamed.”
I think now that I'm sitting here,
In the white and grey death bed,
With a life close to no fun,
And a world with no sun.
Is this the world we once read,
From books of the red and green,
They spoke of the sky of crystal blue,
And the trees of emerald hue.
This world was not what we imagined,
A world full of lies,
The myth which lies upon us,
To be graceful and surrender,
 It shushes our thoughts,
And dominates our strength,
And it makes us believe,
That we're nothing but weaklings,
Born to die and perish,
And time too little to care.