#can't study

A selfish heart, that beats for none other than itself.

A mind that thinks for no other than itself.

A lonely soul, that longed and yearned for no other than itself.

Just a body, that deserves to bleed but wishes to be worshipped.

Specks of stardust, rotting flesh, dried up blood and a sick mind.

That's who she was. Embodiment of madness with honeyed, childlike grins.

Eyes that wouldn't tear up at the loss of someone others considered a loved one.

A child that would spout hurtful words like a prayer, now silent with the built up anger of years.

A girl who would leave the world to burn even if she could save it.

Her nasty true self unknown to most.

Who will love her? Unconditionally, like she read in her romance novels.

Who will stay with her for a lifetime? If she would leave her prince charming without batting an eye.

She wasn't made to be loved, nor was she made to love.

Is being yourself as confusing to you, as it is to me?

I mean, how easy is it to tell a person that they can just "be themselves", at an interview?

Well, what if I don't know myself? What if said "myself" is someone who shouldn't even be an interviewee in the first place? What if said "myself" isn't real?

More often than not, I know and understand my reality; "I" being the key word. You don't. You don't know the clusterfuck that is, my mind. You don't know whether what I'm telling you is true or not. You don't understand the logic behind my answers. Nor do you understand the fiction it stemmed from. I could feed you anything, ANYTHING, and make it about me and you would have no clue. I know. I know because I do that more often than I'd like to admit.

Maybe, just maybe, the version of me that you know is what I aspire to be, what I wished I were or what I want you to THINK I am.

Or.

Maybe, just maybe, you do know me, fantasies and alter egos be damned. But maybe, you know a part of the real me and I made the rest up to keep things interesting.

Or.

Maybe, just maybe, I've lost track of my actual personality in all the aliases I've been busy creating.

That thought scares me. Who's to say that I actually I like chocolate and I was not just influenced by a version of me in a fancier, richer, happier verse that was but a figment of my imagination. One I chose to keep around.

(When you write poetry instead of studying)

I lift it up, I put it down,

I opened it, I closed it shut.

Those books of "knowledge" handed out by less bothered teachers.

What knowledge? You just have to pass.

I will pass. Passed for the past 20 years. Passed with fear through heavy tears, anything may come, but I shall pass.

And then what?

Repetition, repetition, repetition.

Institution after institution for tuition, with fee so high just for ppt submission.

I ain't scared, you think I'm scared?

Scared for the future that could be?

For path we make is path we take but what am I making? Breath is shaky, will is breaking. Suffocating, palpitating.

You think I'm scared? I ain't scared.

For what if all I do is in vain, nothing to achieve so what's to gain?

Drinking hot tea by the hour, pretending everything is ours to take - but was it ours in the first place to take? Fate in our own hands? What a mistake.

Children we come, children we go, so unrecognizable thought, prancing as adults all around the place, but that place is just a spot. And on that spot? We rot.

So when you ask if I am scared, I ain't scared,

I'm terrified.

For all such reasons, as I see, that "knowledge" that's fed into me, fades.

And all that remains is the unseen.