This poetry is a reference to - Due to some kind of suffering that is unbearable, we start growing different people in ourselves and make scenes (that never happens in real life), a whole another life. When one continues to do the same regularly, it becomes so much that they see their imaginative selves in real life, and they can't stop thinking and imagining even if they are doing work like cooking, writing, walking, playing.. they just can't stop. and they become something or somebody else..
They (here) are - Different people from my another life
most people I called mine are now out of reach, and the least I can do is let them be. I had learned the lesson of letting go too early but never could practice the same art. they say it takes more of you to hold onto the past than to let it go but what do you do, when it's the same baggage that keeps you from drowning? when I say people, I think of sunflowers and ships in the sea, but the world is panting with drought in its veins and a Bermuda triangle collapsing on its only third side. doesn't it remind you of people and their many pretty faces, but expectations hurt and you can't grow immune to that. when I think of people, I hear their songs of love and sighs of farewell, but the world is bleeding in words of poets and wars of times, so much that double plurals in my poems can't suffice to say how much it hurts. most people have built homes midway, for a destination sounds too complete and the least they can do is choose an end they can really see. most people i called mine are so out of reach, maybe it's the distance or the parameter of clocks but the more I look away, the further a horizon slips away so all I can do is jot down these thoughts and make a poem of them, 'cuz even if I'm not a poet these words can still sympathize for me, even if it's for their own sake.