published: (updated: )
by Harshvardhan J. Pandit
A friend whose hopes we cannot satisfy
Is a friend I would rather have as an enemy;
And so I would take a friend to be
Who remains discreet and hostile to me.
For what difference remains between the two,
One who vies to get his enemy’s throne;
And he, who stabs his friend for the sake,
Of writing an epigram on his tombstone.
What kind of a friend was she,
Who wished me to have a curiosity to hear,
Just because she had something to say.
Were you truly my friend, My dear?
Being so different on everything everytime,
I listened to Metallica, she listened to Britney.
Where minds differ and opinions diverge,
There is scarce a friend in that company.
MY friend is the one whom I can.
Associate with my choicest thought.
And not someone I remember, who
On every little thing, with me, fought.
I’ve known enemies now for many years,
That an open foe may prove to be a curse.
But the friend, of kind, I’ve discussed here…
A Pretended friend, is always worse.