it's funny how once could i write
long long paragraphs about a feeling
with nothing just loneliness in site
could i think about falling and healing
but now nothing great comes to my head
just these plain old lines whisper
leaving me desolate and doubtful instead
my pen full of ink and papers being crisper
yet struggle i to put two words in a sentence
everyone and everything is more or less a pretence
was i born to be this person that i am today?
was there this much potential in me all the way?
then why as a child did i dare to dream big,
wanting to grow a fruitful tree from a twig
yet my life's been an unending autumn
floating now, i remember rock bottom
because when i had nothing i had all my words,
and this moment when i ain't empty, inside me breathe two worlds-
one is about contentment and satisfaction
but the other, puts me in this torturous traction
to do more, be more and become more
if nothing special, but better than before
and all day i live in this conflict
two ends tugging at me, the pain they inflict
i don't know what this ******* process is,
merely morning stress or a **** metamorphosis?