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Apoorva 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.
mannat airi Jun 2019
My thoughts are getting older
day by day,
minute by minute,
second by second.
They are getting older and
I can see them fading away,
my vision is getting blurry,
my feelings are shattering.

Slowly my thoughts are getting older
and I am losing myself.
now I need you to find me because I am in darkness and I learning to love myself there.
but still, I hope you to see through my smile that,
my thoughts are getting older
day by day,
minute by minute,
second by second.

— The End —