Crazy Wits

Sometimes I hate it when

My poems are all about myself

My heart, soul, nostalgia

And my crush then.

I don't know much about

The people around me,

Because I’ve created my own

With no whereabouts.

It’s strange how I notice

The little changes in the sky,

But have no idea when

Someone enters my premise.

I don't know if its

Good or bad to live

In a selected part of reality,

And that too with crazy wits.

Strange how everyone manages to

Be so wise and stupid

At the same time,

By making so much ado.

And this is me, weirder

Then you; walking with my eyes closed

In an already dark place

Dropping everything that I gather.

Sometimes I hate it when

The stuff dropped by me

Leave it's aesthetics on my hands

As a final insult to see.