Walking through the same pavements everyday,
Walking down through memory lane,
Struggling to keep my pace in the present,
Struggling to forget the anchors of the past.

Tracking back isn't as beautiful as you think,
Mine tends to be tragic.
You try to reminisce those savory memories,
Like browsing reads at a bookstore.

'Twas my grave mistake, whenever I try,
Anguish always presents,
Though I try my hardest to bring back what once was,
It has been impossible; I bottled up my old self.

Acquaintances come one after the other,
Yet, I still feel isolated;
None know me as I know myself:
Twisted, deranged, elusive, terrible.

I can write on and on, endlessly;
The darkness within me is immortal as well,
I try not to beg for anyone to notice;
Though I tire myself finding an answer.

For now, this is me.
Different from what they know me to be.
I'd rather be a perpetrator than a victim,
But looking, it would always be the other way around.