Mimeomia (n): the frustration of knowing how easily you fit into a stereotype, even if you never intended to, even if it’s unfair, even if everyone else feels the same way—each of us trick-or-treating for money and respect and attention, wearing a safe and predictable costume because we’re tired of answering the question, “What are you supposed to be?”

It is weird isn't it
That all these girls
In their dainty dresses
And heads drugged
With the nicotine
Carrying love
Giggle and tease each other
How that guy was looking
So longingly at one of them
One even starts building
Castles in the air
About this guy she met
At the newly opened café
No it isn't anguishing
That they talk of guys
No, not at all.
It is a matter of anguish
That they talk only
Of guys
Cause if you notice
One of them is very quiet
And is looking at another girl
A stranger, sitting opposite to them,
With unspoken longing.
That young man
In his office cubicle,
Smiles politely
At his colleague talking about
The lady he is getting engaged to
But looking at the side cubicle he sighs
The man he loves, he shall never be able
To marry.
Hence i wonder
If it's written somewhere
In the papery constitutions
Of our pasts
That love is a potion
Locked in bottles
Labeled, to be drunk by males
And the after effects include
Falling blind for girls
And does this go
Vice versa, for the
Ladies out there too?
This question thus settles
Deep inside somewhere
In my heart, like an itch uncured
And this, demands an answer.