colours are changing
dying branches grab at air
as they become bare

i think of
the tops of trees
in the places where humans do not roam

at least then
my mind will be clear
and untarnished from fear or self-righteousness

words are currencies
i'm richer than a banker
typing at twilight

what a sad slip of a boy
who wears grey jumpers and hats
sitting in the dark of his bedroom
writing stories of the past

a haze clouds his eyes
for the future he cannot see
grief-stricken and dissociated
he does not realise all he could be

the solitude comforts him
as he's pumulled by history, the sundrenched kisses
wearily typing
imaging all of his tragical wishes

it's been a long road
how much further is there left
i'm already tired

i want to be a boy
i don't like this age
give me adventures
and make me brave

grown-ups are ordinary
and think in a line
no magic left in them
nothing more to mine

i tumble around
in this poetical haze
what am i doing?