I feel like my throat,

My hands, and my roads

Have been blocked

By a dictator, shapeless.

It's restrained,

Like a tightened hat on a head.

People say the head's oversized, 

Never that the hat is small.

I'm like the dove

That was resting on the wooden pole

On the roof of my grandparents' house,

It was ready to fly,

But it didn't fly.

And somehow, somewhere 

In that stillness,

I lost the will to go on.

The feeling's so overused sometimes.

Like I've been bleached off my colours

Not to produce patterns,

But to just burn.

I feel outcast.

And If my loneliness were a tree,

It would be 

The biggest banyan out there.