In my life, I have never been a home to anyone
I have been a door,
staring at people hopefully, yet helplessly
letting them come arduously and go freely.
In the eyes of outsiders, I am the epitome of strength and pride
who debars anyone and everyone to come inside
without satisfying me with a cause,
without climbing my stairs of criteria.
And insiders nickname me as weak and possessive
because I cling to them as a hinge
without displaying my dignity,
without illustrating my independence.
Some days it rains, it rains heavily.
Imbibition makes me swell with self worth,
And I get chocked enough to be opened anymore
Somedays a thin ray of sunlight peeps through me
Compelling me to be parched in acceptance,
discovering the darkness inside.
My knob is in the shape of a fist.
Robbers try to play with it, toil to break it.
But the destiny teaches only to few real people
how to unlock it,
keeping it unbroken and shining as before
My frame is in the shape of your mindset
And my conscience has concluded that
I don’t need to fit in every frame
to look beautiful,
to feel valued.
Still, sometimes I wonder
“What’s the existence of a home without a door and why the existence of a door is so unvalued!”