I miss myself. 

How beautiful was I,

untarnished, untouched,

by the reality

and unconcerned about the society, 

who aspired to soar high

like a free bird in the sky 

with hope in my eyes

and my face decorated

with my beautiful smile.

I miss myself.


I was art, then too, 

but I was beautiful 

without the crude 

and harsh reality 

that I now have to wear

as my reward (as I feel at times) 

as parts of my personality. 

I miss myself. 


That self didn’t feel pity

and this self doesn’t know what to feel

except pity towards itself.

That self was a warrior

yet was happy, 

this self is tired 

and finds an escape from its reality. 

That self, unlike this self, 

didn’t lack motivation and vitality.

This self doesn’t and cannot feel

what it wants to feel truly.

I miss myself.


I Miss Myself

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