Here I am,
Sitting on a bench, under a tree.
Here I reside,
Controlling my body, holding my breath,
but letting my mind free.

Here I am,
Penning down every thought I ever had.
I have my earphones put on, but there’s no song playing,
Apart from my appearance, guess my mind is also a facade.
Stupid? Some may consider,
Thoughtful? Others say,
Stressed? I prefer.
Because I live in reality,
Or maybe I just want to believe that I am practical and brave.
Here I am,
Slowly and slyly digging my own grave.

The truth? You may ask.
Writing is neither a hobby, not a talent,
It’s an escape, a temporary mask.
I never write when I am happy or bored.
I write to get away from my fears,
Believe me! I am never the girl who takes the less travelled road.

So, Here I am,
Sitting alone, in a crowd of people,
Unseen to the happy lives,
Attractive to the desperate eyes.
I lowered my gaze,
I didn’t shout,
And behold!
There goes, unheard my cries.

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