Stranger

By Pragya Sadhana Neog

What have I become, but a stranger to myself?

A wanderer through the map I drew,

Lost between the pages of my own biography,

And a whisperer without echo...

Poetry remains my oxygen,

But exhales do not feel relaxing anymore,

Perhaps I fear love now,

The love I craved, prayed for,

Perhaps the prayer has become air now...

Money has started to matter,

More than dreams ever did.

Fear has started to drag me down,

As I silently watch, letting it.

Am I a failure?

I do not know,

Define success...

I can't.

For I have the premonition,

That, whatever I do,

Whatever I choose,

Whoever I meet,

Is wrong.

That I am wrong,

I am the broken, breaking perfection.

A rhythm God gave me,

I snap it in half and smile...

Maybe this is when you should say sorry...

Maybe this is when you tear up.

Is that my voice speaking?

I do not hear it, I ignore...

Who am I, but a stranger to me?

Who am I, but broken, breaking reality?

By Pragya Sadhana Neog