Born are the dreams with me.
But weak am I to make them come true.
Tried have I to make things seem right.
But poor am I to even make a dark day seen bright.
Great are my dreams without a penny.
But wicked are those with money.
Admiring are they at me.
But selfish are they to support me.
Too painful you know how it is to be walking with empty stomach in the sun.
Weaker and weaker with every ticking second I become.
Sleepless my nights started becoming so I stopped dreaming.
Like a lost hero in the jungle my dreams were found dead.
I had no option but to mourn and cover them with constant demotivation and tears.
Gradually, this was how my dreams got buried.

© AbuBakarrThePoet