Just me.

I don’t want to be famous, or successful, or even remotely an idol.

I just want to be me in this whole wide world.

No matter however insignificant or ordinary I may be, I just want to be flourished in my own skin where the sun ain’t burning it anymore nor the people.

Where I’m satisfied with the simplicity of the life I want to lead and not the one I’m able to or I should.

Where I would not gauge myself for being what the world sees in me under the charity of potential.

Where I can fly not for the sky, but for the wings that embrace me at nights.

Where I can dig my legs into mud and not fear getting dirty for the clean path laid ahead of me.

Where the stones that cause me harm are not my stepping stones to success but the ones I used to play with in my childhood, maybe they are angry that I don’t play anymore.

Where I don’t feel the need to be remembered after I die as I don’t feel the need to be remembered now while I’m still alive.

Where no poems of mine should be signed by my name but the feelings I felt while I created them, it can be gladly be the readers now.

Where I don’t have to own anything, even myself in a world where everyone is trying to buy me off, and owning myself is just showing that I’m ownable, which I’m not.

Where I could cry for 4months and not care what the people has to say about it, because I will follow up with a breeze and a warmth to touch.

Where I can sleep with my nightmares and not be scared to be scared of them because the world keeps on teaching me to be brave, what if I’m ok not being so?

Where I have no roles to play being the social worker, I will give what I have taken, be it smiles or sorrows.

Where I could kiss the air and not cough at its audacity to be free and wander in the lonely woods I recall to be my home away from technology and innovations.

Where I can juggle with my mind, create either something constructive or destructive, the power of which I won’t share with the world and neutralise by killing it in my own hands.

I want to be the story written in backwards.

The poem with no rhymes or meters.

The flawed human, impulsive and decisive at its edges.

The unbinding chain of thoughts.

The memorandum of rights or wrongs burned in the forest fire.

The incorruptible seed sowed knowing absolutely nothing.

The confused soul always curious yet calm in its own perspective.

The kindling wave which erupts the undetermined sand.

Over all, removing all the ‘the’s, just me.


7 thoughts on “Just me.

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