When my intellect soars to the top of the Whitworth Hall,
in my psyche that identity of faceless dull wallpaper remains dormant,
ready to lunge into depression once the coil springs.
In the endless query of whys, the whos and the whats and the hows
are vivid rolls of freshly circulating scenes of rejections and underdogs,
hammering conviction after conviction of devaluation of self.
Hey, the masquerades are all at reach: which face to put on today?
Sneak peek is available only when your classified file is thick and full of scribbles,
and even so, a cynical eye is just a facade to reveal, onion layers, ain’t it so?
Nakedly silly, when the words sought are purely simple: You are beautiful and I love you.
— triple the dosage, or better, in each and every.