Depressed

State a critical view putting on philosopher’s lens,
Speak of the pressing issue with profound sense,
Recite a nihilistic poem that had you impressed,
See how quickly the world calls you depressed.

Express such views that are socially obscure,
Paint all your belongings in violet and azure.
How long will you keep the emotions suppressed,
Just to avoid being called again as ‘depressed’?

Criticize the mundane ways our lives are led,
Vocalize the fact that everyone shall be dead,
Resonate with the pain of a human distressed,
Odds in favor of you being branded depressed.

Not all sufferings are reasons to die,
Not all pains aggravate when you cry,
Some people do like to idealize strife,
Oh strife, ultimate reality of human life.

भूख की चूक

कई निकले थे घर से, लेकर थैली और सपने
कई मां बाप के उम्मीदें, कई खुद के अपने
सपना तो सबका एक ही है, घर-गाड़ी-पैसा
वो ही दरिया-राह-कुटिया, चित्र कला हो जैस

कौन कहता है कि वो सब होते हैं अलग
कभी पूछकर तो देखो कहा कोई नई तलब
चलते ढलते आ पहुँचे वे इस चौराहे पे
अभी समझ आया लुप्त थे वे पहले से

देख रहे यहाँ से वहाँ, आख़िर उन्हें जाना कहाँ
किसी किताब ने न सिखाया, मंज़िल है कहाँ,
प्रमाण पत्र है कई, रह गई बस एक चूक,
रोटी तोड़ना सीख गए, सीखे नहीं है भूख

The Hunger Untaught

Many set out from home, with bags and dreams in hand,
Some were their parents' hopes, some their own to command.
The dream is the same for all: the house, the car, the gold,
The same old river, path, and hut—like a story often told.

Who says they are different, or seek a different fire?
Just ask them once, you’ll find no new desire.
Drifting and wandering, they’ve reached this crossroad today,
Only to realize they were lost long before they found their way.

Glancing here and there, where is it they must go?
No book ever taught them the destination they should know.
Certificates they have in plenty, yet one flaw remains deep:
They learned how to break the bread, but not the hunger to keep.

Limits

I am a teacher. I teach teenagers with little attention spans. I have to use techniques that capture the attention of such minds. Hence, most teachers (not college profs/lecturers) have to perform to a classroom. All adults know this - How we set our fake smiles and high pitches to appeal to the children. That we perform. That’s the second performative art I learnt.

The first one I learnt was writing. Though it isn’t strictly performative, I once upon a time converted it into an online performance wherein I would write and post a blog every Saturday night and used to guage response in comments and feedback. And here i am, back at it, to tell you the 101 lesson of art. Not one-O-one. It is the hundred and first lesson. It’s a lesson that every performing artist learns when they live long enough.

Human mind and capabilities are limited. Despite having new experiences and continuous accumulation of information, we tend to become repetitive after a certain amount of time. Any new person we meet becomes boring after some time. Maybe a week, sometimes a month, mostly a year or two, and if you’re lucky enough, it may be longer than your lifetime. But yes, they become repetitive, to say the least. That’s true for full-time professionals too.

Many often tend to notice how a certain artist’s songs are repetitive. I got bored by the time I read Chetan Bhagat’s fourth book and Tolkien’s fifth. That’s why any artist has a solid life of 10-12 albums on average. Then, we know them. After that, people become predictable and boring. It happens to movie directors and music producers. It happens to artists and writers, content creators and YouTubers. There is some good news though.

The artist should realise and plan accordingly. I plan my interesting methods of teaching for 2 years long. After that, I shall become a burden. My writing was never planned, but I knew that I had an upper cap. Well, know this as a performer. Know this as audience. Too much of the same artist will become predictable. And that is how people are. Everyone becomes boring when you wait long enough. Thats why a wise man once said “You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.” Then, Nolan became boring.

శూన్యం

 తీయడానికి ఏ కథ లేకపోతే, రాయడానికి ఏమీ రాకపోతే, ఆ రాకపోవడం గురించి అయినా రాయొచ్చు కదా అని ఒక గొప్ప కళాకారుడు నా చిన్నప్పుడు చెప్పాడు. నా పరిస్థితి కూడా అదే ఏమో మరి.

ఏమని రాయను చెప్పండి. ప్రకృతి అందాన్ని చూసి మురిసిపోయే ప్రతీ సారీ, దాని వర్ణన చేస్తూ, జ్ఞాపకాలుగా తీసుకున్న ఫోటోలను ఇంటర్నెట్ లో షేర్ చేయడం వలన ఆ ప్రకృతి పాడైపోవడం గురించి రాయమంటారా? ఎప్పుడో ఒకప్పుడు మన మనసుకి నచ్చి చేయాల్సిన కాలక్షేపాలను పిల్లల మీద రుద్దుతూ అవి కలిగించగలిగే ఆనందాలు కనుమరుగై పోవడం గురించి రాయనా?

పిల్లలకు చదువు, సంస్కారం నేర్పించాల్సిన బాధ్యత కలిగి ఉండే ఈ సమాజం తమ చదువును, సంస్కారాలను మరిచి రకరకాల వ్యసనాలకు బానిసలుగా గురించి రాయనా? లేక భావి తరాన్ని సాకే తీరిక, ఓపిక లేని నేటి నెటిజన్ తరం వారి బరువు బాధ్యతలను వేరొకరి పైకి నెట్టివేయడానికి చేసే నాటకం వివరించనా?

రాజ్యార్హత, రాచగౌరవము కనకపు సింహాసనమున కూర్చోపెట్టిన శునకాల చేతిలో కారం అంటిన కీలు బొమ్మలు అవుతుంటే ఉద్వేగభావాలను భద్రపరచనా? ఎందరు మంచి కోరి మాట్లాడినా, అహంకారము చేత కళ్లు మూసుకుపోయిన వారి వాదోపవాదాలు కలిగించే మనోవేదనను వ్యక్తపరచనా?

Different dreams

Morning 4:40 AM. It was civil twilight, the sky was the bluest blue it ever was. Kristn was walking up the stairs of the stadium. That stadium where the concert was held last night. Soda cans and chips packets lay around. As he climbed up, the changing rooms and washrooms became visible. They spread out on either sides of the white wall that faced the stairs. Their black doors reminded Kristn of his piano keys. He stepped out of the stairs and stood facing the wall. He looked all around examining the whole area, left to right. There she was, dead. She laid motionless in the same black dress.

Kristn was a background piano player at the Deli city’s concert hall. He has been working for four years now. He had been the piano player for every Tchaikovsky concert. After his music course at college, Kristn signed up for this job, partly because he liked his music and partly because it afforded him that small studio apartment next to the city metro. He could go anywhere he would like to at very little cost. Also since most concert gigs were in the evening, he always had time to do other chores and gigs.

Last night, he was playing for that 12 year old Violin prodigy’s Mozart 39. Last night, he was also in love. Since the past few months, the feeling kept fading in and out. Specifically fading in every time Vadin walked in and fading out as time passed by. Vadin was the new recruit at the hall, she was the storekeeper and worked every Tuesday and Friday. She attended her music school on the remaining days. Vadin might have been Kristn’s 3 year junior at the school. She was learning the flute and had the air around her.

In Kristn’s life, she came as a respite from the monotony of life. He seldom found any life in all the pieces he played. That lively feeling that ever pervaded in his late teens at music school is now lost. The pieces repeated and the job lost its sheen. Life was otherwise mundane. Vadin on the other hand had been bustling with energy. Young energy. She’d always volunteer for all tasks beyond the storekeeper job. He only noticed her from a distance. He never mustered the courage to walk up to her and talk to her.

Maybe, he never felt the need to either. He wasn’t keen on establishing a friendship or relationship of any kind. But he adored her. Until last night, she was just a graffiti flower to him. Colourful and lively, though near, too far to interact with. And now, she’s gone. Consumed. Consumed by the darkness of the world. She consumed the pills. She took 30 pills, 3 strips of acedifenac, equivalent of drinking 60 cups of coffee minus the water. Bad death for an innocent soul. At least, that’s what Kristn felt. Kristn thought.

For Vadin though, it was a completely different story. Her parents were musicians. She was in music school by consequence, not by choice. Though she liked the flute, she never wanted it to be her career. Indeed, she wouldn’t have picked up the music school if it wasn’t zero tuition fees for her just because her mother was alumni of the college. She wanted to use music to make some pennies that she can spend on learning economics and finance. Those were her choices. But, finances of her father couldn’t buy her that dream.

She took up the job at concert hall recently, to save for her dream degree. She had been a great worker, dedicated employee and the ideal student all her life. She knew she drew Kristn’s attention at the concert hall. No one knew anything about her suicide. Not her parents, not her friends. She was a happy-go-lucky girl as far as everyone knew. And then she died, 30 pills in. While the why of death cleared, the how of such a decision remained undisclosed. As I woke up of my sleep wetting the pillow, the causations for such an attempt couldn’t be traced back for the dream’s portal is closed.

Regards.

Intoxicated

Dark,
Cold Wind,
Chilling winter,
Cold feet after ride,
Tiresome days working,
Winds howling by the door,
Lavender's aroma fills the room,
Hot showers clear the slumber,
I would like to be intoxicated,
And leave the idea of time,
For the warmth of love,
Selfless and warm,
Innocent love,
Young love,
Youth.

Hot,
Thirsty,
Dry throat,
Restless tongue,
Daydreaming lakes,
Visualising that waterfall, 
A glass of water on the table,
Wonder why water is the Nectar?
Gulp and feel your stomach.
Clear intoxicating water,
Clearing the mind,
The thought,
It's Water,
Love.

It is what it is

One more year ticks by,
not fun how these days fly,
No more tears left to cry,
neither is there a will to try.

Got speakers and headphones,
the one that audiophile adores,
Got a library that never bores,
no time to listen doing chores.

Got that kindle app on a tablet,
A cozy corner to sip the ginlet,
Khalid to Janet, Ikigai to Hamlet,
No patience to read a pamphlet.

Got that Honda, black and white,
Listed places with curves tight,
Got that Honda, grey and light,
Can’t get out and stay overnight.

Got that phone, clicks so clean,
Got that dumbbells, teenage dream,
Got a wardrobe, I wanna be seen,
Now I live in the monotonous realm.

Gave up on the leaves and fruit,
Gave up being the rowdy brute,
Gave up the cheat with the lute,
Now they smell my suit and boot.

Make me poor if that’s being rich,
Guide me to the reversing switch,
I’d rather be haunted by a witch,
than lose life clocking this glitch.

Red

How good were those times when we were stupid,

Those nights when we were intoxicated by Cupid,
One who calms down the fluttering morning dove,
One who kindles and elicits the feeling called love.

Cupid loved youth and spent time working on me,
Sending me into impromptu poetry with a glee.
Ahh, the good old days when he rekindled the fire,
Kept me warm throughout the day using his lyre.

The cold wind of adulthood tickled the flames,
Cupid had gone off to places with no names.
The fire was put out and white smoke ensued,
It died in the rain of instincts, primal and lewd.

Time passed by,
Ashes flew by,
Seasons of lust,
Memories’ dust.

A calm cold night under a clear sky, 
Amidst darkness that made light shy,
In the long lost ashes by the riverbed,
There was a faint glow in a tinge of red.

Men at the bar

A man’s strength is judged by his arm,
Stereotypical adherence is his charm,
Toxic are the leaders of the next gen,
Submissiveness conforms gentlemen.

We systematically strip him of emotions,
Softly materialize him in Greek notations,
We cast him away if he’s meek and mild,
And also complain if he starts being wild.

Every such man is never touched typically,
Physically, mentally and metaphorically.
Such lack of empathy moulds men today,
Enforcing them to keep their feelings at bay.

Such men resort to cheap thrills for recluse,
Feeding bodies on drugs their bodies refuse,
Wishing luck on bets crafted to make them lose,
Wasting able youth on marked up cruise and booze.

Goated is that man who can like a flower,
Greater is one who grows to be a gentle lover.
Nietzsche’s Superhuman is not a debacle,
It is him who breaks stereotypical shackle.

Hail!!! Men, who eternally loved this command,
Come, break that band, let us all rebrand,
The choice of who and how a man wants to be,
Let it be his choice, let him choose wild and free.

Senses

Moved to the city in my early teens,
Studying to fulfill middle class dreams.
Days passed by without seeing sun,
An oven called coaching, I was a bun.

The only respite were those Sundays,
Ah, those Sundays and the sun rays,
Cycle to coaching, that dreaded test,
And then those breakfasts, the best.

One good long bath, ample time to wash,
One day to read news, ogle the Panache.
Crosswords and sudokus, the nerdy joys,
And then that smell, the one to rejoice.

I knew many a heavenly distinct smells ,
Petrol, petrichor, ocean in the seashells.
Tobacco factory and bakery next door,
But none carried a comfort that this bore.

It was the smell of boiling white rice,
Nothing fancy, it must’ve been just nice.
The smell of that only hot relaxed meal,
The whole week’s tiredness would heal.

That is how I started eating beyond it,
The limit that decides if I would be fit.
From one meal in a week to every snack,
I lost the naturally controlled eating knack.

Then I acquired layers around my tummy,
lost my health to foods that were yummy,
Went from a boy that swung in the breeze,
To the man in the mirror, oh he’s obese.

That wild instinct driving my appetite
is a different expression of lust,
It procreates life when done right,
And when wrong, reduces us to dust.

That heavenly feeling olfactory sense,
is a different expression of love,
The one without definitive presence,
It stays forever but it lasts now.

To be able to smell, to be in romance,
to learn to embrace and enjoy that trance,
To be able to not touch and taste,
To not kill that innocent feeling in haste,
Is the lesson we have to learn!!!
WE ALL HAVE TO LEARN!!!

Why am I even writing this?

I tried writing a piece or two in the recent times,

Let me be honest and true, to not forget rhymes.
As was the practice when I first started writing,
I kept a brief note of things I felt might be exciting.

I wanted to write yet one more version of suicide,
But I slept through the process as I was too tired.
I started writing about the unfairness at workplace,
And I gave up half way because it didn't have that grace.

I wrote two stanzas on the silent problems in a man's life,
I quit because I didn't want to glorify my own strife.
I thought of writing diss verses on the hypocrites,
But decided against it to not waste my precious nights.

Thus the course of this art had been taking turns,
Surely there had been issues for which my heart burns,
And there's a lot of vocabulary my mind churns,
But I'd keep these half-burnt poems' funerary urns.

What shall I write about when I don't feel inspired,
if not this piece of idiocy that had here transpired.

మనసా పద

సూర్యుడే నిశిలో రాలిపోని, కరుణను భావమే అంతమవనీ

చెడుకే బలగము తోడ్పడని, మనుషులు బంధమే మరచిపోనీ,

బాధే మనసుని తొలిచేయని, నీ ప్రేమే గెలుచునులే.......

మనసా ఇక, పరుగాగక, నను చేరుకో, ఈ దరికి రా, ప్రేమే ఎన్నడూ ఓడదులే

చరణం 1 : 

ఇరువురి స్థితి గతి వేరవని, మన ప్రేమల గురుతులు మసకవనీ,

ఋతువుల గుణములు తడబడనీ, పిల్లలు పువ్వులు బోసిపొనీ,

ప్రకృతి సర్వము మారిపోనీ, మన ప్రేమే మారదులే..........

చరణం 2 :

భయపడకు, బెదురిడకు, నిను వీడి పోవును వేదనే,

తగు సమయం, నీ సమరం, తల వంచును ఈ విశ్వం.

మది ఖననం, మరు జననం, ఇక అంతము లేనిది ప్రేమయే,

ఇది నిజమే, ఇక ఉండదు కన్నీరే.....

A grey rat

The poor mother deprived of food feeds the baby over the brim.
The average dad who ran errands for a living adores the superstar.
The plump child bullied in his teens builds enviable physique.
The simple girl catcalled in the school is now a makeup influencer.

There is one narcissist who orders people to respect him.
There is a pervert who acts pious to not let society judge him.
The unskilled one wants to earn in millions and show one's worth.
The ignored child tries to be the best kid for parents' affection.

We are all insecure in our own ways,
We are all trying to win the rat race,
Often forgetting that we are all same,
Like any other rat in the cat's game.

Winter

The rains have slowly started marking the end of heat, 

everyone rejoiced on day one to the petrichor sweet.
Time moved quickly and all returned to their abode,
Tending to them, securing and praying not to erode.

All were in a bustle but only the old elephant was calm,
For its concern was how to keep the next winter warm.
She has had good memory of the agony from the past,
How she had to breathe voluntarily to not make it the last.

The days were getting shorter, the air smelled like mold,
All life went into their own burrows fearing the cold.
Those left in the open grew thicker fur for the chills,
Silence loomed all over, gone were the mating shrills.

There was enough greenery and water around to feed,
Problem was the chilling wind that the autumn freed.
The water was freezing, the leaves and twigs crushing,
Foxes and wolves kept track, eagles often came rushing.

There was no one around to ask about the return of sun,
No sign of hope, no will to live for she was the only one.
The battle was between the elephant and her own self,
Everyone else was a spectator, for meat on their shelf.

All that she knew was that the sun shall again rise,
For she was told truth by her father, noble and wise.
She ate the frozen branches, chewing on and on and on,
and sipped waters till all sensations in trunk were gone.

Countless days passed by without a sign of sun's heat,
All that helped her know she was alive was her heartbeat.
Lastly, the sun came a day clearing months of mist,
She was the only left alive of all she knew from her list.

Such shall be the despair where one has to win a fight,
Where all others shall skip or die screaming in plight.

Seasons

The summer has lasted long, there were cracks in the hard soil.

All the life that was left was throbbing in a biological turmoil.

The clouds were forming, all creatures rejoiced in the first rain.
The rain brought relief, and the breeze that soothned the pain.

Soon the incessant rains made the whole place smell musty,
The souls that once rejoiced, now wanted a land that's not murky.
The rains ended slowly, and all water drained as streams into rivers.
The earth cooled enough and the breezes now caused shivers.

The days became shorter and colder and a white gloom doomed,
All life was striving to find its own place as the cold wind loomed.
The fur grew thicker and the vultures often fed to their content.
Not many beasts knew how to make those winters well spent.

The sun eventually got warmer and the mist was fading away,
Gone was the cold wind, and the little ones were all out to play.
The days got longer and everyone girded around the big lake,
Until the predators ensured that lives were either ways at stake.

The summer has lasted long, there were cracks in the hard soil.
All the life that was left was throbbing in a biological turmoil.
The cycle has repeated year over year for as long as we know,
Only they survive who realise how to stay alive after each blow.

చరిత్ర నది

ఈ కదిలే నిమిషం హిమమే, 

పొంగి పారదా చరిత్ర నదియై,
నీ ప్రతిష్ట పర్వత సమమే,
నిలువదా భావి తరాలకు సారధియై.

This moment passing by us is like a drop of snow, which shall eventually flow down as a river of history. Our glory is like that of a mountain, (from which such a river shall spring) which would stand as a guiding stone to the generations to come by.

An expression of my overconfidence that my glory shall stand forever like mountains as time trickles by like rivers (Young blood).

Reposted from 2011-12.

ప్రతి నదికి గమ్యం సంద్రమే,
కాలం చేసెను మధనం కవ్వమై,
చివరకు కురియగ వర్షమే,
కరుగదా ప్రతి పర్వతమూ ఇసుకై.

Every river that flows shall reach the sea, where it shall be churned uniformly. And when the water returns again, as rain, wouldn’t such rain melt these mountains away into thin sand?

An expression of my understanding that many such glorious and heroic pasts have faded away in the flow of time, and most glories cherish.

Why?

When I ride my loved bike between two cars,

Why not get crushed like a foil between the dies?
Why not end up amidst those glittering stars,
Like a forlorn forgotten twinkler in the dark skies?

There’s a poison bottle somewhere under the sink,
Why should I not pour a shot and sip my drink?
Why should I run a rat race amidst such stink,
When I could be gone in a day if not a blink?

Tell me why, Oh tell me why,
Tell me why I shouldn’t die.

Choosing a gift? 🎁

As humans mature, they tend to interpret life as a series of events often disconnected from each other, which becomes clear when we read the biographies or autobiographies. These mostly independently events are then intricately linked to form a flow to the story we all believe (and take pride in) that we have to tell it to the upcoming generations. Off topic, this single ability to learn from someone that walked this planet 500 years ago because of the robust communication channel that exists between us is a distinct advantage humanity has over other species.

These happenings and events in our life are often commemorated by dates, photos, videos and gifts. And while the first three are pretty standard, gifts and giftings have a lot of meaning. Or at least, had a lot of meaning. Until, we, as a society collectively stripped it of this meaning and made it a ritual. A mere ritual where we see
(A) A person shopping for a gift based on budget, taking recommendations from the executives around the store, and often gifting inorganic products that neither convey their emotion nor resonate with the taste of either of the parties
(B) A person deploying another person with a standard set of instructions to shop for the most generic gift the receive will receive on that occasion
(C) Gift cards because one does not want to take the pain of carefully curating a gift but also doesn’t want their gift to end up as a showpiece in the urban dungeon.

I’m not discrediting the ritual per se, as most generic gifts in formal occasions are representatives of the common emotions that many feel during certain common events. For examples,
(A) Gifting a bouquet of roses for most welcomes and congratulations for emotions that fade over time and always come with thorns of adjustment and adaptation (during welcomes) or efforts and pain (during congratulations)
(B) The whole ceremony of marriage which often involves adorning the other with a piece of metal (at least in Hinduism and Christianity) to evoke emotions for as long as the human lives.
(C) Chocolates and sweets on occasions that are momentary for the other party, just like one’s achievement is a matter of least concern for the other party
(D) all the silverware and showcase items gifted in marriages and housewarming ceremonies to contribute to the quality of life of the receiver as well as become a memorabilia
(E) as seen in south India, gifting regular kitchen utensils with names of dead etched on them, to represent that the said ancestor shall be memorized as long as the utensil stays.
(F) literally all graveyard stones serving as memoirs that shall not fade in a 1000 years or so time period.

Rather, I’m interested in asking you to think about the following aspects in the life of the other person before choosing a gift like timeframes and functions, before the budget and shopkeepers suggestion. How? Well,
(A) timeframe - of the occasion. Hours/days for victories and achievements, Days/months for birthdays, years/decades for ceremonies, lifetime for graduation/marriage/childbirth. Choose a gift that shall be a representative of this timeframe
(B) Function - as a usable (consumable) product which will add value to receiver’s life and perish over time or a storable memorabilia that shall never be touched and looked consciously upon rarely. In selecting the latter, one should always focus on the relationship involved and personalize based on the emotion they wish to invoke.

Pro-tips:
(1) Personalized gifts are always recieved with more warmth and affection.
(2) Always explain your logic to the receiver (if you have had any).
(3) Try to learn how the receiver treats such presents and reflect accordingly.
(4) If you are financially incapable of reaching to their standard, prolly drop in a letter that they shall cherish more than the gift itself.

Happy gifting!!! 😁😁😁

The Tunnel

A fresh morning, the sky was clear,
birds chirping and cooing with no fear.
My little home in the countryside farm,
and I woke up fresh without an alarm.

I pulled the running shoes over my feet,
And set out to find a fine turkey’s meat.
I walked until I stumbled upon a peacock,
Chasing which I ran into the mountain rock.

It must’ve been a modern concrete cave,
Abandoned, yes, definitely a stenchy grave.
I do not remember whence I lost my shoes,
Nor can I recall if I had more paths to choose.

Nevertheless, gone was the fresh air breeze,
The other end of tunnel just appeared to freeze,
I was walking in darkness on wet stones,
Perhaps, they smelt like scraped dry bones.

Thirst and nausea took over my ability,
and I ran to the other end in insanity.
I could see the snakes moving on the wall,
And then I felt a long weightless fall.

I fell into a pit of darkness and slime,
lost myself in a void of space and time.
I felt around for steps to climb upon,
the last ray of hope was now all gone.

Lost, shattered, tired, trying to cope,
Hoping to randomly find the magical rope,
back into the tunnel of blood and bones,
Of distant frozen ends and eerie tones.

Maybe, just maybe, I shall find a way to the pit’s top,
Think of it, oh! What a glory…
Someone somewhere says “ hey, it’s just a pitstop”
Heh, who even knows my story???

Selfish

I grew up in the older city where stigma still prevails,
I was told many stories where the hero never fails,
The Hero was always altruistic and cared for his kin,
The Hero who never lost a fight or thought of a sin.

When I was let free, I behaved with utmost propriety,
I worked with integrity and cared for all in the society.
I was taken aback by many of those narcissistic men,
Men who were cruel wild animals, just not in the den.

I promised to myself to make my storytellers proud,
I had hoped and worked to stand out from that crowd.
As time progressed, we moved into the civilised lot,
The chaos of life blurred this promise to be just a thought.

The tower that stood tall was gradually gathering rust,
I was becoming self-aware and cared for only who I trust,
I looked at the man in the mirror and couldn’t identify,
For the face was full of scars from acts I shall not defy.

It was today when a human asked me if I was tired,
All I did was reply, never realising why one inquired.
Why does this version of me feel so outlandish?
Maybe I became the one I loathed, THE SELFISH…