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Poem

On a busy night, near the streets as I stood,
When something felt off  nothing was good,
I saw a dirty, abandoned plastic bin,
The widely and popularly known as the DUSTBIN.
How it came and what it became were poles apart,
It must’ve been shiny but now it didn’t look smart.
Just for the sake of people, the unknown, the others,
It was shedding tiny pieces of its shine and colours.
Its unpleasant look was never his fault,
It was the result of society’s assault.
It could feel the disgust on people’s face as they used to smash,
Their very own, handmade trash,
And very easily make it the bin’s property,
And that naïve used to assume it as its responsibility.
Some angry smashes used to make the bin tremble.
It had the courage to still stand but never enough to rebel.
Eventually it couldn’t withstand other’s trash and it started to overflow.
It tried its best to hide but now it was open to show.
Everyone started to blame it, blind to understand,
But still that naïve had the courage to withstand but never enough to take its stand.
It had the intention to clean and create happy faces,
But all it got was dirt, anger and happiness in traces.
Maybe the traces were enough to live while having lost its originality.
Maybe that’s what we call its speciality.
At that very moment as I gazed at it and waited,
How the dustbin had felt its entire life and my feelings resonated.

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