Dreamer, once I was called
Hopeful and naive, all those labels,
They soon vanished
Like cigarette smoke
As a second-hand smoker
But lately, creativity I am devoid of,
Even wisdom, my true and last friend,
Fled as I lose myself.
Yet, the odd thing is,
I was never myself,
For there was never me in the first place,
I existed for myself never once,
Me whom I thought familiar,
Was never the me I knew.
In search of perhaps, light
Or darkness, or anything really,
I resign this me to typing,
Horribly structured and aromantic,
Broken sentences,
Broken self reflected,
Until I find once again who I must be.