The forlorn pages of my diary,
Were left empty.
Maybe because of my forlorn attempt to fill those.
Or because I didn't wanted my forlorn self to be written on those.
I spurned to write the instances when I was left forlorn, and was termed as an outcast.
I repudiated to picture my forlorn conditions, when I used to sit crouched at the corners.
My inner self could not embrace my flaws and the scars which were left behind forlornly.
I always tried to stand strong but my legs always trembled before them.
Was I the one who was meant to be felt pity upon, or were those the ones pitiful.
I felt pity on them, a pity on their upbringing, a pity on their actions and a pity on their existence.