Every experience, every color, every emotion, every dance, the sighs of relief, the all-consuming joy, I record them all. Every shame, shortcomings, sorrow, burden, struggles to reach my fingers. Is it because I lie to myself all the time? Is my life just varnish over filth? Why do I hide anything remotely unpleasant behind a tapestry and shiver when I'm forced to face it? Why am I obsessed with being perfect, as if having flaws makes me less loveable. Why do I value love only when I feel like I've earned it? Am I becoming someone that the child in me despises? Is success so important that a good heart becomes ancillary? Where is that girl who used to care for others more than herself? Is it truly that bad to put others first? Why is my brain resembling a computing machine, calculating the value of every relationship on the basis of gains and cutting those that don't reach the level I seek?
YOU ARE READING
A budding writer's collection
PoetryJust a bunch of poems written as and when I feel to write them
