On days,
I feel like no one,
I just want to grab the depths and still be indebted to them as if only those can heal me,
Staying to the depths,
Just me and depths.
When my skin gets sallow,
And my own entity of being semblance just diminutive,
Where I feel a mere stooge of my conditions,
A paper, a leaf, a particle of a dune of sand, all and one, just floating,
I ask for forgiveness to myself,
To just forgive,
With tears,
To seek staccato,
To just be free,
And my heart in vain cries and cries.
Maybe it is what it is.
Identity is an illusion, I found,
Image, the so-called approval, sham!
Leaving no room for anything unrequired, yet always filling it up with unrequired.
I pity it.
It is pitiful.
Maybe it is what it is.
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