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1 min 180 1 min 180

Of course, I know,

It doesn't makes sense.

That's it's just a an obsession.

Trust me guys, I do realize.

Fiction cannot be a profession.


Seldom pays your bills,

Rarely calms you down.

It creates what you cannot find.

Makes you a joke,

Amongst white collared folks.

Wrecks havoc on,

Your peace of mind.


But I, my friends,

Am an outsider 

Trying my best,

To fall in line.

The ancient mariner,

Begging for an ear 

To end this self imposed exile.


A desperate guy,

Needing desperate measures.

Like stamping tears,

On self addressed letters.

A hopeless romantic,

With limited means,

Who's smile doesn't appear.

Until it bleeds -

From a quivering nib 

Down sparkling sheets 

Finding solace in poetry.


And so here upon the canvas,

Of my mediocrity.

With limited crayons,

I donate what I need.

Drawing time and again, 

Without motives of gains.

Portraits of my varying identity.


Maybe one fine day 

Below a tiny black cross

Over the map - of my mind.

You'll find a box,

With my name on it,

And find my identity inside.


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