Under the hardened skin,
Behind the warrior face;
Lies Armour laded innocence,
Looking out for some free space.

In midst of winds of selfishness,
All cold and dry;
A lost child within me,
Feel nervous and shy.

Betrayed by the puberty,
Shaken by the dreams;
Fatigued by my own weight,
Lost by my own team.

In the poetry of life,
Prose seems to be the thorn;
Such a drastic has been change in milieu,
That I cry like a new born.

So much so I wanted the winters to end,
So much so were the summers a desire;
That I fail to see the heat stroke come,
That I walked on amber and breathed fire.

It all will make sense,
I hope at the end of the day;
If there is darkness and night,
There has to be dawn and light of ray.