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 Oct 2013 M
auspicious
I am
 Oct 2013 M
auspicious
I am.

I am an ordinary person who gets older as a year pass by.
I am just like others who breath the polluted air.
I am that human being who asks questions over and over again even if I know the answers won't change at all.
I love to dance and sing and listen to music at any mood. I am just that.
I keep on talking to people who I know would forget me as we part ways.
I don't mind others but just accept the fact that we are all different.
I am interested in writing and would often be interested with others' works too.
I am quiet when I'm mad. I would make a tantrum alone. I would smile at my hardest times. I would keep my chin up
even if I know I'm already wrong. I do things that are complicated and fail a lot of times but I would still continue
and I would fail, fail, fail again and expect to never reach that success.
I look down on people but I look down on myself more.
I am a leader but I don't listen to my own words.
I want change but I'm too lazy to follow.
I study and I hate it but I still do.
I learn and make sacrifices that would lift up my souls.
I do things I don't even like but find out later that I loved them.
I get hurt and I cry. I fall a lot. I fall to fail, I fall to love.
Love, love, and hurt. What's the difference?
I wish on shooting stars, believe in promises and make myself stupid.
I am used to loving someone then fall out of love.
I sit and stand up. I walk and come back.
Why do we do things that just always leads to the same direction?
I am once a kid, I grew and made sense.
I am just an ordinary person who doesn't even know why I even wrote these things.
I am just a person.
A person trying to find out who I really am.
(hey guys, first poem to post and I feel my hands sweating. Kindly leave some reactions so I can know how I've been doing so far. xoxo - nR.)
 Oct 2013 M
Sir Walter Raleigh
What is our life? The play of passion.
Our mirth? The music of division:
Our mothers’ wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for life’s short comedy.
The earth the stage; Heaven the spectator is,
Who sits and views whosoe’er doth act amiss.
The graves which hide us from the scorching sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus playing post we to our latest rest,
And then we die in earnest, not in jest.

— The End —