broken glass

your silhouette

what a weird thing to be human. what a wacky way to live a life without purpose. blandness suffocating your inner self. you like to hate and betray, and you feel proud. what a purpose to live. since this awful existence, you've been clinging to lies and deceiving and making a fool of others. you adore yourself, which isn't wrong. what's wrong is how you adore your spiteful words and your envious remarks and your boastful gestures and your silly whisper of motivation, which you've been feeding others; feeding me, the most. you make yourself believe you were born to be like that, i'll tell you, that, you never were. then again we all have an excuse, to blame the society. haven't you ever wondered about the willingness, the desire, pushing you to the edge? you dive in the polluted ocean of insecurity and your will to trust is gone. you dislike people now. you look at me like i've wronged you. how ironic. you play games with yourself and you call it 'depression.' you make jokes about yourself but you don't know if you had to laugh on them too or not. you criticize the people around you and they loathe you, for this person you've changed into, because of some complex, silly wishes and those ignorant and stupid friends who mocked you for having a chubby face and a small height. the people you called 'friends' made you regret; the regret of living a life. you stopped stepping out of your house in the fear of getting humiliated for the acne you had. you think you're canny but you don't even know how to talk to yourself. you don't even know if you're 'you.' i feel like you're just an imitation.