It’s a life of hustle,
It’s another day,another struggle,
Gotta cross the ropes while I juggle,
It’s my life full of pickles,
Handling all these grumbles,
I ain’t trying to stumble,
Ain’t ready to crumble,
Even if I got faced to a muzzle,
Of a Glock or of a rifle,
Hurdles like these trample,
Anyhow I get stable,
Express it as rhymes while I doodle,
on the bits of paper I just scribble…
Messed up in these puzzle,
Finding my value in this bustle,
Crossing all these hurdles, everyone I’ll startle.
With all these troubles,I gotta quarrel.
Trouble strangles,from all the angles.
Gone are those days, when I was fed with a ladle,
Now it’s time to get on the saddle….
That’s quite a common stuff, to all the hustlers,
They’ve been doing this, since the medieval,
Sweat from the forehead, to both of the ankles,
Tardily and laggardily, dribbles ‘n’ trickles,
To the apex where emotions and hardwork mingles,
It’s the voice from the inner sanctum,that keeps us going on,when hedges fickle,
Telling that no man ever got adored by a bustle,
Until he didn’t faced failures that cripple…
Steps do tremble,hopes get feeble…
But trifles like such never get niggled,
That’s narcotic to all of the muscles,
Either of the brain,or that of limbs..
A trail of zeal,gives a profusion of feel..
In the stream of red,it exites,must be said
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