Weltchmerz

Present, the oh -my -so- important,
sublimates into a bunch of faded memoirs
and yet i suffer, struggle , strive, fight for it.
The insignificance of being ,haunts me yet again
and still i protest giving up being a part of this gyre .

what am i but a part of you?

The bliss that i seek does not exist,
the redemption would be never complete,
smiles i forget, and pains count
and frame them on the dirty wall.
to stare at them each morning and night.

what am i but a prototype of us?

The crowd around me is most loathsome
and the silence in me eats me in parts ,
none is welcome ,yet i hate being a loner
never do i stop, think and look back.

what am i but a shadow of every body ?