In the poems I ever wrote,
None of them my heart\'s quote,
Visions of mine began to loathe,
Or calling this one as a note.
A note to me perishing my lacks,
Or a motivation to fight all the attacks,
Words as they come filled in sacks,
And cutting me down, smashing me on tracks.
A note to me moving on so fast,
Why to ponder over the cursed past?
Seeking through opportunities even the last,
I live in a nightmare-o-so-vast.
A note to me to dry up my pillows,
To leave the nights as merry as it goes,
To pass the failures and high up all the lows,
Proving the world wrong whenever my soul glows.
Can a poetry of mine be a note?
Can a heart of mine free of this load?
Can I be someone I never owned?
Would that be enough to keep me unknown?