I'm getting all prosaic & stagnant;
Despite of having an existence so rare & fragrant.
I'm all blank all day;
And foggy & wry.
My lines & rhymes are getting repetitive & mundane;
Like my reality, crumbled & vain;
I feel empty due to the long episodes of pain;
But it's better to feel numb then overwhelmed.
Am I walking at all?
I wonder how long have I been standing still, but can't recall.
I sometimes want to feel the warmth of someone else's flesh;
Kiss them hard, hug them tight, become a mess.
But then I remember, these are the things I want do with myself, for myself;
Maybe a bit of isolation & self-nurturing would help.
I prefer to be wrapped up in the warmth of my own solitude;
But instead of self-loathing it should be self-love that I must include.
Maybe I'm just exaggerating;
Everyone suffers, way more than me, so why am I over-reacting.