On the train ride home
I catch myself on the train’s window,
Hiding in the dark,
Consumed by the cityscape.
My eyes are but crescents left.
A run of street lights were like stars.
I stare at my barely-there reflection
And bask at the emptiness.

Of how much the earth has taught me,
how come doubt always
finds a way to live there
at the pit of my stomach?
Of the many mornings I looked at
myself in the mirror, how come
I feel like I still haven’t
Seen everything about me?

I am exhausted spending
All my days to build a dream
That is slowly getting less like mine,
When, to start again may
Be all a waste of time.
What if life is not a single path to take
That if I force to continue
It may become a waste of life?

Maybe I’ll start to live knowing
How our souls are created
to surprise even itself,
That happiness is measured
On how it is immeasurable
And that life isn’t limited to
The visions we thought we’d keep.
Or to what other people think.


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