Getting Over It Poem by Ruhani Choudhary
Getting Over It
One word, two letters,
Yet relative to every soul.
What's it? Who's it? Where's it?
It is none of the above—
A queer figment of imagination.
A sudden gush—it is nothing.
Oh, no worries;
I simply made up an 'it.'
Poor fool, repeating the same cycle,
Unknowingly, he is his own devil.
'Get out, ' he says—yet refuses.
He's happy with it,
Yet so depressed by it.
Poor fool, still not getting over it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/28/2026 10:44:09 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
