The sun have risen, so did it set.
Like every other day my day went,
In hast to find who am I.
Emotions rolled in me ,
Like the waves in the blue sea.
Flurry,calm, distructive
Silent and deep.
Exhaustion settled and
Only thus, in a figure of speech,
I slept.
Bizarre, fantastical,
Blurry and calm,
were my thoughts.
A fine line between nightmares and dreams.
The hour of night when everyone
Is in deep slumber,
I was the soul wide awake.
Staring at the ceiling,
Because bright stars were too far away .
Left to fend with my self,
My thoughts ran like hounds in the deep night.
Forsaking it's prey.
Their is this deep melancholy,
In the question I asked ,
Who am I?
Am I the girl who laughs and smiles,
Like every other in this blurry image,
Living the time of her life?
Or am I the girl with a skinny figure
with a mind like no other,
The best in everything
Like people told me iam?
Or am I the friend who cater to everyone's need
The selfless one who forget herself in the end?
Or am I the girl who's shy and demure, the one who loves isolation
Dumb , mute and deaf?
Am I the daughter,
With a loud mouth and horrible future,
The disobedient one with a hard head?
Or am I the sister,
With knowledge and no wisdom.
The one of no need and a wasteful one hiding in the corner?
Or am i the one insecure to the core,
From everywhere to everything,
She found herself undesired more and more?
Or am I the one, who have strayed from the path of righteousness, no chance for her to ever return?
The deep cuts in her hand had become a knowledge to everyone
Or Am I the one with an unattractive face and a stinking soul.
The drowning in a mess without any goal?
Or am I the one who cries silent tears at night,
Without a single soul knowing the purpose of It all?
For everyones love and ejoyment I moulded myself into things.
Forgetting what my purpose is
Losing myself in the process.
What has become of me
Who am I now?
The question locked safely
To be opened again in the late hours of the night
For the sun had risen a beginning of colors and an unknown artist somewhere
Painting her in the canvas of life .
We think we are the author, creating our own life
But we are just a story, written by someone.
Love,
sleep high and sleep thorough.
For when you will be woken up
Will be the day you will sleep in the ground
Far too low.
