His His Whose Whose

This world is similar to the cursed Ghost thurst, There is left my soul but there is no body of mine, It's only our hearts lamentation for useless dust. We always expect more but get none. We chained our feet with flowers petals, We eagerly wait for new hopes and new desires, When we will stop being abnormals? We can't leave aside our high ambitions and aspires. This universe is similar to a canvas, And I am here is a portrait, The crisis I meet always make me nervous, I assume how long I have to wait? I want to get myself out from this so called world, I want to store courage into my bones, Though I know someone will try to down my head. I should not try not to be indifferent ones.