When I look at the old roadways of past,
I realize it's not people all along,
it's been me—the central character of my story.
Today I have all this because I earned it;
I know I've created myself,
even if it's like carving a statue from rock,
but I did it.
This life's mine,
nobody owes it.
Why do they matter?
When they played no major role in my story?
Why do their words matter
when they don't even know the dot of my existence?
My true story begins with me,
I owe it all to myself.
I'll give everything to that child within me.
When I look at the old roadways of past,
I know nobody can snatch the shine I have,
even though they'll try their best
to let me down, to take the credit.
YOU ARE READING
Tales Of Hopeless Romantics: Imperfect Poetic Journey Of Love And Life
Poesia"My love was as cruel as my nightmares, and it was as beautiful as my daydream, which never dare to turn itself into reality, neither did it ever ended like a daydream, the agony kept hanging me like that of half hope, the hope kept hanging me like...
