My heart pains,
When the fruits rot,
My dear oranges that i love,
Lose their color,
Become so bland,
They look dead,
I feel sorry,
I could devour them,
When they were happy,
And now they're gone,
I just have to bid bye,
Forever and ever,
Their smell that I love,
Fades away,
The perishable scent,
I don't like it.
I only wish that I had eaten,
When their life gave me a chance.
I should've eaten.
They are delicate,
I shouldn't do this again.

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.