87.

It feels like I’m living in space,
And dark matter is something I taste.

I am used to running at my own pace,
But now I have mud marred on my face.

I can’t see.

I speak in only what is poetry,
And my emotions come in eight.

I bottle them all into one.

Tears are ever dry on my cheeks,
And you can see, the stress under my eyes, and what’s left of when I used to cry.

My mind feels numb;
And, My heart feels dumb.

I am afraid that what I sought, is not exactly something that I need.

I feel that I went the wrong way, and I don’t know how to reconcile with the single fact, that perhaps, I went into a direction of constant and ever unfortunate demise… With a single hope to grow,
I will inevitably rise.