Scattered dreams, vague responsibilities,
Unsettled heartbeat, withering proximities.
What am I to you? What am I to this world?
Just how my shadow-bearing fathomless blues, does even matter to you?
What if I am trying to live differently, does it make me less human?
Unlike you, breathing out the shady cast off your heavy chest in mundaneness.
If this is what you call living, then let me sink into my infernal trench.
Asked about my quiddity,
Unhinged with the known unfamiliarity.
I trudge amidst the Belladonna Labyrinth,
It might be my guilty pleasure to bleed blue onto the sheet of lucid obscurity.
I pen down my unsteady soul, to feel unshackled off my taunting vehemence.
Like the four seasons elapse,
It comes and warms me up in a summer duvet,
Like taking a stroll around wintery clime, it numbs my rhythmic stream.
Makes me respire as the spring does to the daffodils.
It dies in me, like the autumn’s curse to the sentient greens.
They say I exist where the stars abide but for my part,
I write, so I reside.

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