Can someone please tell me who I am?
Or what I am?
Could this be me or someone else?
I caged myself every day in the prison of writing
Is this part of me?
And is this what is called talent?

I live in my own world not yours
The white part of my eyes serve as my day
While the black was my night
I sleep by the time I want
Not the right time
Am I even making sense to myself?

I always do what I feel like
Not what you instruct me to do
I spend all my day thinking and meditate
About many things
Including my night
Do I even get a time to think about myself?

I was blind and deaf
That I can't even see the one who care for me
Nor to hear the right call
I became so popular
In the field of inspiration
But, in this life
I live as a stranger
Am I on the right path or on the wrong?

It has become a part of me
If I think I will sick
And if I don't I will still sick
Do I even have a purpose of being alive?
Am I a human being or a living dead?