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by Pallavi D. Patel

(Photo by Anita Austvika)

Is it called Living?

Forcing yourself out of the bed every morning.

When you haven’t moved yet, but your body feels tired and torn.

When the world is perhaps, shining bright; but your eyes cannot see.

When every step you take is like Hamlet’s, TO BE OR NOT TO BE.

When a smile doesn’t cross your lips, at the sight of a happy child.

When your heart finds no delight in a flowering weed wild.

When there’s no desire in your heart, and mind lacks vision.

When good humor seems to ignore you and to laugh there’s no reason.

When you no longer hear, what your soul screams.

When novelty scares you, and there’s no new dream.

When all day you think, you’d rather be asleep;

And when you lay in bed, to you eludes the fickle sleep.

Is it called Living? Or is it death in disguise?

What have I fondly mistaken for life?

– Pearl

(Pallavi D. Patel)

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Piyush b patel September 24, 2019 - 9:08 pm

It is a beautiful poem. ☺

Aradhana October 19, 2019 - 7:27 am

Good Morning Pallavi. I loved this poem this is as beautiful as always. I can relate the pain and sorrow.


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