Sometimes, I
look in the mirror,
looking at myself as
a stranger would.
Studying the reflection
like a specimen
under a microscope.
Picking out flaws.
Not recognising
who I am
or what I feel–
detached and adrift.
Sometimes, I
look in the mirror,
looking at myself
as a stranger would.
An emptiness
fill me— a void,
I float away and
stop existing.
Who am I?
I wonder, as
anxiety wraps me
in its embrace.
Am I real or
Am I a facade.
~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~
YOU ARE READING
Window pain
PoetryThis book is but a humble attempt at encapsulating life and all its flavours. It is an ode to the sad days and melancholy nights. For grief that stays alive even after years have passed. Musings of longings and dreams of escape. And a protest agai...
