That which often felt fulfilled,
yearns for itself in repeated pursuits,
recoiling to its full strength,
causing anguish to its master,
who once thought it worthwhile his time.
How many times must a suffering last,
for a desire to be called wasteful,
and end itself before the master quits.
Oh what a waste of life, this burden;
glorified as inherent intelligence,
a fanciful creation of a certain mind,
a mere weed born out of idle distractions;
multiplying at will into a monster within.
Shun this very idea of thought,
for it holds us chained unto itself,
forever in its grip, while we despair
to find the key to existence
to find answer to the perennial question –
Who am i ?
Ink what you think 