My dear hustlers

 My Dear Hustlers

 The demons of this world would make your cry,

When your paths would get stolen and your fame would find it hard to survive.

The chauvinist and the privileged would always move ahead,

When you as a toiler would be taken  for granted even when you are dead.

They would do a little and it would be counted as humongous as the hump of the trump,

Whereas you, even after doing the painting and the fainting would be considered to do a minute just to loose .

They will loose every game,

But every award belongs to them.

You tossed day and night to rise above everyone,

To win the game of life and birth.

But still no awards, no claps , no smiles,

Belongs to you.

They feel sorry for them,

Who have acknowledged even their wrong doings in the mighty good frame.

Whereas your life threatening achievements would be seen as croocked hook of mightly obscure career,

That has died before it has begun to start.

Fragile are your hands now,

Who are afraid to work this trauma out.

Juvenile are your hearts now,

Who are rebounding to suffucate yourself in smiles of frown.

You have always been a go getter,

But what would you even get?

When the winner is pre decided,

Who is treated as the head  ahead of all students even after loosing every game!

So you weep, you feel bad and get moulded up in this blanket of grief,

But my dear hustler , you should know that ,

Hustlers hustle every fucking way, every fucking time, every fucking day,

They got zero repproachments on their heads and hearts that can inhibit their massive play.

No trophies can accord the strength you built from your struggle,

Cause you know what, hold you there,- you, yourself,

My mighty massive player.

You are the reason for them to chase and talk about you , after every fair game you play.

 The head bows and the head stars were never your pride,

Because you were ready to fuck your whole self for that one tiny improvement ride.

You looked for peace in mistakes ,

While they look for appreciations in disgust.

You always wanna taste the secret of being platonic,

And they always wanna taste the secret of being like you.

There's always a difference, in you and them.

You live for creating the best of yourself, whereas they live to get claps for their mediocre self.

The difference is pre seen,

But the judgement would be made in your destiny.

The hustlers like you and me would hustle,

Whereas the rascals would always be ready to snatch the minimum from your plate.

So don't cry, or weep,

You are the son of the mighty God,

You are the daughter of the mighty heaven,

So the hell hounders would always participate in this race to deceive.

 Its not important to win the race,

Its just important to learn from its pace.

Its not that easy to get that attention,

Where the beauty and the status are always awarded of mighty money mansions.

You have the talent,

You have the will,

So now or then,

You will make it through the rill of the giant leap forward.

Jump up, jump down,

Hold your hands, and play to the one found.

And tell him in his ear,

That one day , this hustler without any fear,

Would turn mediocrity to mere.

Wait now, just see,

 let them get , once again happy.

The fire in you would burn their fools and flies,

When at the day of judgement , 

These snatchers would themselves decide to die.

Leeza