Blame me for not being you.
For not reflecting your perceptions.
For being me.
For blooming the flowers of odd hues in my garden.
For carrying a heart full of poetry and mind full of seasons.
For being summer than spring,
For being mist than rain,
For listening than speaking,
And for scattering than gathering.
Blame me for deviating from the ideal human,
Because my pursuits of happiness are different from yours.
A.C
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