Fling

Everything has a side of its own boringness Be it a success like a chewing lollypop Or a failure that crashes like the heap of waste The poems which contain continuous imagination And have abnormal epithets like the tongue of fire No doubt, at the beginning we may get sensation Later we feel like burning of our senses And suffer like mental torture The reality in a piece of prose or in a report It does not cut us less either Rape, murder and war Lust, greed and covetousness have their own edges As sharp as the angle of a just broken stone And suddenly you feel an urge of eruption An eruption of urge to change As taste of a person basically by nature is a fling