Live

and withered,

A nihilistic phantom gliding by unseen; absorbing every move he makes, imbibing the air he breathes, mesmerised by his very being.

Stuck, within a perpetual blurring of actuality and reveries, cursed by an everlasting ache for more.

Instead of battling, I surrender and float.

To name myself a poet feels presumptuous, an act of self-importance that I am not sure I deserve.

It is true though, that my heart holds a softness and emotions consume me whole. Constantly I find myself yearning for approval and simultaneously recoiling from the attention it brings.

So here I will stay; safely hidden between the pages of my notebook, seeking refuge in the very art that both liberates and suffocates me.