Prena Poetry

I always told myself, I was too afraid of appreciating changes and occurrences of variable futures in my finite years. I was always scared of understanding that something lied ahead of me, something was going to change the very instant I decide to take another breath.

And I always prowled upon the sewer expanding in the corner of my mind. leaking the morbidity to my chest, and letting my feet sink into the thoughts of how I would again fail to pick myself up or atleast save myself from falling into the same pit again and again and again.

I still somehow feel like I can never change; I can never be the woman I dream to be in the next seven years or I can never love someone so righteously. And yet, somehow, when I look back a month ago or some years ago. I realize, I am not the same person I once used to be. And it is an irony that weighs upon the shoulders, about how I look into the mirror and tell myself I can never change but I have actually changed so massively.

I am better but I’m also reduced in many areas. I’m happier and yet drenched in bad and blues. I’m in love with myself and yet I’m onerous to my own heart.

I think I’m so achingly addicted to this slow crippling cycle of war and peace with myself.

𝓻𝓾𝓷𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭 𝓲𝓷 𝓬𝓲𝓻𝓬𝓵𝓮𝓼