My story wasn’t that much sad,
Nor it was that much mad..
My story wasn’t that blessed, Nor that much stressed..
My story wasn’t that happy going,
It was just a river quietly flowing..
I wrote other’s stories,
Nobody wrote mine..
‘Cause the world exist,
For me it’s you..
Still my story was unique,
Written on a petty piece of teak..
It was different, It was unique..
But it remained unheard..