i'm hurt with what's happening. it seems like my inconsistency has always been there waiting to be noticed, acknowledged, approached. and, now that i figured out all my life's a mess, a complete fiasco, i can't do anything anymore, or contribute something at least. i think i'd always fail. i think i'd be inferior again. i think i'll lose it all. i don't know what i do know anymore. i watch out for my moves if they are right. i'm actually misguided by everything. i'm sad. i'm a dirt. i should vanquish into thin air. i hate my life to extent i don't see the path i deemed less traveled. why are these people fighting, struggling for their aimed goal? then i want to quit. i deserve nothing. i'm tired. why everything required must be something you aren't fond of? i want to experience happiness. where could i find it? could i possibly be like anyone who thinks like no one? i'm an invaluably heated mess. i should be written off. i want to be in the clear. how can i get off the hook? i'm sleepy. i'm jealous. i'm a sloth, stigmatized big time. i'm fed up with these people trying to paint the colorless in me—that i wept in the guise of treachery.
he breathes out what seems like a tough blow, "writing them down actually does feel a whole lot better."
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Fools
PuisiA collection of poetry found its way juxtaposed with short works of prose, conveying talks about what comprises the life of a fool, what it takes to be such, and whatnots in between. Fools is a book of poems and prose alike, dedicated for those who...
