My living's still in secrets;
perceived by no one right,
by proud believer witches
held by filters at sight,
whom I've communicated;
often as an earthquake,
for benefits they acquired
and losses I partake;
cunning yet careless,
friendly yet bored,
loud yet senseless,
my verses they hoard;
for treasures to theirs --
my rotten leftovers;
in no content but pride
they covered unbothered;
boastful but timid,
pleased but unworthy,
plain but so desperate,
for attentions I buried;
I shouldn't have fallen;
into pitfalls skin-bare,
maybe mine yet alone
'least I'm free from their stares;
their stare-forged opinions,
their gaze-drawn delusions,
with dark auras smoke-screaming,
for beguiling my illusion;
but still kept curiosity;
for their disloyal identity
'wished this leaving directs paradise
of self-seclusion intimacy.
