He used to get wounds and scratches all the time.

"Mom, I'm hurting and aching!" he cried, tears running down his face. His mom was full of bandages and it still didn't cover every wound that was bleeding, infected, pulsating. But she said it was just a scratch, and that he needn't do anything about them. There were people that had it harder than him out there.

And that's what he did with every scratch and wound. Becoming a walking, breathing and living corpse, flesh barely hanging to his bones, hardly any blood left to even coagualte, rotting cartilages. His eyes, an infected mess because of the horrors he had seen. His mouth muttered no words, for it was mostly mold. And ears he had not.

But still, there were people that had it harder than him out there.

Does your skin ever feel too tight

Or too loose, for that matter

That you just want to escape it

altogether.

Does your existence in general seem bleak

You want to be your first option

You want to put yourself first

insted of the others.

Do the plains behind your house

Or the hills that you pass by

Or the mountains that you’ve seen once in your life

seem inviting?

Do you want to run away?

Do you want to change your skin

Do you want another kin

Another face, another space

visiting the outer space

Depersonalized, living

While dying alive

You feel it’s the people

stirring

in your inside.

When chaos overtakes you

You try to rationalize

But never did feelings understand you

For they have been like you once too.

Ignored, depersonalized and sad

Someone tells you

That they cannot be emotional with you

that logic rules them

That the next friend you’ll make

Will actually care

But they are the 100th next you ever met

and there is no one yet

Do you want to run away?

Getting lost in the forest

And forgetting yourself.

Going out in the city

And emerging as someone else.

Going into your room

And killing this self

That carries

So many memories

Forgetting that you’ve been forgotten

All this time

And that it’s killing you inside

Do you want to run away?

Do you want to save yourself?

Do you want to forget yourself?

Do you want to be someone else?

Do you want to change your skin

It might take another year

Are you ready to make the choice?

With every line I read,

Each word I write,

I despise poetry more and more.

I don't love it.

I use it to kill my time.

I treat her like a whore.

I only write lines when I'm too beaten up

by life in general

and I don't even put feelings in them.

And I also think that

By breaking the cannons

The rules of poetry

i so diligently learned at school

in order to get a good grade

I'm actually rebelling against an art form

I never understood.

I will never be a poet

I don't have the right soul for that.

My rhymes will never come from a place of love

Or sadness, for that matter.

I don't even bother to rhyme

I'm just constantly, redundantly repeating myself.

I will never be a poet

For I do not sing of lovers, muses,

Women, men,

Nature, gods

Or fun and despair.

I will forever write about the rage

That's boiling inside me

That's coming out of my fingers

At 2 AM in the morning.

When after another day spent in the limbo

that's the existence in a world too small for myself

I'm tired

And exhausted

and I don't have the energy

to tell epic stories.

I will never have the vocabulary

And my ideas will never be original

So why even bother

Trying.

Behind the smilling face

There's always mental anguish

that's brushed over by people

who are too self absorbed

and all of that anguish

turns into lines

that make no sense

that do not have the same power

outside the context of my life.

Even exposing the raw feelings

it's not enough.

I will never be a poet

Because I don't even try.

Faith is only reserved to the fate and gods

and if you don't hold such believes,

you shouldn't have faith in anything at all.

For how can you have faith in a human?

How can a human be always on your side?

Never leaving you, only seeing you

igniting you becoming you hating you.

How can you believe in someone with all your might

when all you want is to believe in you?

How can you have faith

If you have no one

If you don't even own yourself.

Shall I even talk about objects?