Monday, 17 October 2011


One day I ceased writing.
The mere act of lifting a pen
Felt like treason.
I was tired.

I feel tired many times.
And only recently
Have I started to wonder…
Is it exhaustion or is it myself?

I’m starting to realize
That maybe I’m tired of my mask.
That the myriad of intricacies
Which perfect one’s personality
Could be tiring me.

I can no longer find myself,
Nor find joy in the things
Which made me happy.
Nothing tastes like Nostalgia.

But she is elusive,
And I can no longer find her
In the torn pages of an old book,
Or in the simple wonder of my garden.

And as I lose myself,
Even deeper in the shadows
Of a mind which rarely gave me
Reasons for a smile
I feel I’m drowning.

All the plans are gone,
All the truths are wrong.
I have lived misled,
Trying to climb a staircase to Nowhere.
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