what a big writer you are,
with tears serving you as ink
in the end, always
leaving nothing behind

starless night
in disguise,
no sunrise
endless dark

i made a
promise, to myself
that when i get
older, i would
be better than
i was before
but i didn't know
that 'being better',
to other people,
meant
doing impossible
so it's no wonder
that i am no good
       that i cannot do good
that i
cannot
.
.
.
be better
.
.
.

when all
of my effort meant
nothing
to the people i
loved the most

"take my hand", I said
but you couldn't catch me
because I've already
turned into dust
and now the only way to get me
is to salute the wind
and I never wanted you to know
but that's why I lived;
the only reason was
the hope that one day
you'd see what I see,
miracles and beauty;
that you'd love life through nature
I put my soul into making it better

but yet, I never thought
you'd never salute my migrating grave
I never expected you didn't care
never saw you don't think of me
never saw, never saw
you don't love me

maybe it's better,
that I've turned into dust.