By Kavya Shivegowda
I am caught in a quiet agitation
toward my own presence.
Everything around me hums
at a frequency that does not align or construct
but diverges to destruct.
This effect makes me question
my place in the vastness of existence,
where my heart screams:
“You are a waste, you are a waste.”
Waste—
not in the way of something recyclable
or decomposable,
neither useful
nor disposable—
but merely existing,
unnoticed.
Breathing, yet breathless.
Living, yet lifeless.
Left out of the grand plan,
missed—like miscellaneous.