She writes often, the ‘gravest’ substance
Those words, tangled to her apron strings
Beyond her realm, a fistful of pittance
She dare not fly, with her abridged wings

The price of rice, and the cost of pain
How a woman succumbs, to her self-made maze
When she goes to invent, a piece arcane
She chases a thought, in many needless ways

It’s indeed a toil on her heart, soul and mind
To think like a man, in a feminine way
And her stereotypes are, too dumb, to ever find
That a woman, is an author, of an art astray

Yet she clasps on, a petite rainbow, in her hands
In vanity’s cradle, a squandered panache
Her many yesterdays, stuck in shifting sands
Woman caged alas, in her Feminine Tosh!

© 2016 Vikas Chandra