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.