Is life just losing parts of yourself,
And then living to find them again?
Getting lost in the journey,
Hoping to find the past YOU,
And when you get it,
You'll lose the real YOU,
And by the time you become present,
You yearn for the past YOU.
But when will you be happy,
With the YOU that you are now?
The YOU that you hated once,
Is the YOU that you love now,
But will you ever love YOU?
The one in the present YOU.

I wondered,
How could the great Artists and Writers,
Give in to depression.
Had they not feel their art within,
Or had their art not heal them in?
If only had they blend with the strokes,
Fused themselves with the Prose.
Would they have been here?
Why would they disappear?
I got my answer for it all,
When this poem’s end called.

My shoes don't fit,
But I put them on.
The laces get undone,
On their own.
Is it's way of telling,
They don't belong here,
Or is it's way of telling me,
To stop fitting in the wrong shoes.