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Mar 2
The idea of people is an insult on human condition.
There's nothing left in my heart than shear disillusion for those who say I'm your friend.
What does a friend means anyway?
Just an equally dissatisfied consumer of society?
I don't know sometimes.
I just wish we could erase memories like we erase our names from chalkboards.
Easy, Swift and effective.
Then again what to do with this beautiful life that is nothing but a bad waste of time.
I wish we could commit suicides while existing, because it's too much for us to take pity of others and their sympathy.
Opinions and questions which are as useless as sweaters in Summers.
It never goes away, it always haunts behind the curtains. Always ready to embrace me when I'm even a bit satisfied with myself.
What is this?
Who is it?
I don't know, and I don't even wish to know.
I'm better at being worse, there's this strange comfort in knowing that you can't be anymore disappointed and dissatisfied than you already are.
Existence is for sissies who sleep in their bedrooms till they're 80.
I'd rather just disappear and refuse to be anything else than what I already am.
Not a poem, but poetry.
Written by
Apoorva  19/M/India
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