We spend
All our lives on surface,
Wondering why
‘The other’
Is so distorted looking,
So painfully unbearable,
Or even,
‘The other’
Is so much fulfilling,
And may be,
‘The other’
Is like no other,
So strange and incomprehensible.

We do indeed,
Let the lives float on the surface,
Ignorant
That actually,
We all are mentally, ill.

Ill because we view the world,
With tinted glasses,
Filled with disturbing
Or even happy images,
All mixed up,
So ugly
That we eventually
Find a purpose in life,
Of looking at the world and its people,
Of complaining how dirty and threatening it is,
How easy going yet at times
Rude it is.

We have truly found a purpose,
Of painting a world view of its own kind,
Not to blame ourselves,
Because as ill as we are,
We are equally ignorant.

You, I, him, her,
We all,
Mentally ill-
If such a thing exists,
Kings and queens of our own kinds,
Ridiculing others from time to time,
Content, solely on the surface,
Indeed, that is how we all are.