Sometimes we presume ourselves as an overcrowded page, and sometimes as a blank sheet,
If we delete some previous lines or fill with colours,
Even though will never reach an end which we want to meet,

But the question is why? Everything is only defined by us,
Then why we are not able to figure out our own fear,
Why we are muddling our thoughts, and for what we are waiting,
We can change it at any time, then why we are keeping them in the same way, why there is no end my dear.