Hate, My Love

By Anoushka Sinha

The world is run by broken people,

Messed up to a tee, with no limit to their violence. 

They love silence,

During speeches, bombings, assemblies

Discussing horrors yet to come.

They don't care about guns;

They don't care about knives.

They like lives—

Only if,

The lives of the public are breathed into their fat pockets.

They like special paper,

They like big numbers,

They like luxury—but whine around,

When there's too much of it.

They bring back trends

That are coarse lifestyles for some,

Call it the new aesthetic,

And watch as the masses

Romanticize a lifeless slum.

Either go with that flow

Or become an outcast.

Join a force meant to outlast

5-second regimes.

But remember, the rebels are all good—

Until recognition hits,

And it's the beginning

Of a new cycle.

Suddenly, revolutionary parades for justice 

Cease at the commands

Of those in new power,

Who slap a remark:

"Life isn't always fair."

And in a flash bomb of eccentricities—

It's almost as if the rebellion wasn't even there—

Just a glitch in a never-ending program, 

Run by those

Who've blinded themselves

To screens of people,

Statistics, entities

No more human.

But they can't cry,

Unlike the bright-faced beasts,

Who've leveraged an act

Of grief and turned it into a ladder of fame.

They abuse it—and many more emotions and things,

That made humanity... human,

And turned it into a puzzle.

Changing tactics upon some chess board at every frame,

And who are the players, you ask?

The creators? The challengers? The pawns?

Commentators?

It doesn't matter, it never truly did, and it's lost all meaning now because,

You just lost the Game.

By Anoushka Sinha