i look at the glass window,
and stare for so long.....
sometimes i wonder if these are thoughts
why do i suspect something's wrong?
Hollow as a brass drum,
i hear the echo of my voice
i become what i wana be
a new character of my choice
a bitch
a saint
a woman
a seeker
a provider
endless faces, endless feelings
sometimes an outsider
in control of feelings
i calculate everything
ignore the noises of the insides
feel numb as if in a fling
no i do not act
no i do not pretend.........
i just repress emotions
i just defend.........
i said i was sensitive..
but the world says its not a trend........
in this procedure
i lost my own composure........
cant recognise who writes this, all by himself,
you, the outsider, or a character called 'myself'?
