Sometimes, I feel that my whole existence is an accident.
Something that was never desired but happened.
Like I’m that speck of the universe that isn’t required.
‘cause when I cry, I often become the source of amusement.
My abilities are hated. My sanity is often challenged.
I walk in a room and everyone feel uneasy.
And I think if I sneezed the whole planet could fall sick.
I am this sick.
I can actually feel my veins dripping dirty of this sickness.
That some sick people like me call intelligence quotient.
I was never made for this reality.
I can never fit.
I cherish my failures and try to find inspirations out of heartbreaks.
I mean, who the hell in the world would approve it as sanity.
I am constantly challenged for my beliefs by none other than me.
I love deep.
I fall in love with strangers for their distinct qualities.
A troubled heart, a fractured soul is a treasure for me.
A really good brain can definitely get me wet.
Instead, I imagine spooning them often.
Do you get it?
As if I’m a software program.
Things for me are either black or white.
But then when it comes to love,
I’m indefinite shades of grey.
The inside of my head is often split.
Do you get it?
I’m (an) old (soul). I’m bold.
And if you ripped me open, my soul must emerge to be the color of kohl.
I speak softly, but I love deafening music.
I’m quiet, but my head is the loudest place.
I smile when I suffer, but I’m sad when everything’s alright.
I’m not desired in this maddening universe.
This is all so huge and I’m not even a bit.
I guess, I’ll never fit.