I’ve been me for a while now,
Somewhere over seventeen years,
Yet I feel that somehow,
There’s something not yet clear.

I don’t seek to hurt a soul,
Nor do I wish for bad blood,
With anyone who had a role
In anything I have done.

What I will mention,
There are just many things,
That take my attention,
From any and every thing.

But if they wonder why,
With ease I walk away,
Because after the day I die,
I’m alone in my grave.

But I’m not conceited,
And not self centred,
But when the interest retreated,
So did all my concern.


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