girls aren't delicate flowers they're f*king trees

who are you, asks the wound
and why do you look like someone i know so well
why do i see enemies everywhere
why am i so afraid and lonely
why did i lost myself in countless questions
daily stupid ambitions while pleasing people i know nothing about
dreaming about being a painter or a musician
playing piano or being a normal human being
whatever that means for everybody
i am taking the elevator thinking
this could be only in my head 
i must get out of there and live some real life
full of shame and shyness if needed
full of useless memories, if that's all i thought myself in the past years
you are not a poet, i tell myself
and this time i am not doing it because it sounds good and rebellious
this is my canvas for now
i don't read anything i write
i don't believe anything i think about
but i breathe more often these days seeing
how illusion after illusion after illusion fades away