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Tuesday, October 13, 2009


There is no point to how things are for they are headed nowhere.
I believe that one day I shall see you cry.
That day I shall know how things are and how things shall be.
There is no solace, of that I am sure.
May be I make this up as I write to you;
But all that matters is the clown on the street.
For he believe in me more than I ever can.
He waved at me yesterday.
He told me through his mind, he told me that I do not belong here.
I belong there, from where I came.
To where I belong.
Nobody had spoken to me the way he did then;
I believe I belong there...

But will there be anybody waiting for me back there?
How shall I be if everyone has someone new?
May be I adapt, but surely I will cry.
Which may be why I cry as I write this,
For all seems sad and dark.
If only they could wait for me.
If only the sky would seem blacker than it is.
Then I know that I could make it by.
Have felt this for the longest time now.
Have mourned for the longest time now.
Will anybody ever understand me?
Does it matter is anybody understands me?
May be all that matters is the when I reach there.
What follows then is all that matters,
And not my perception of how things might transpire.

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