“Answer me, young hiker,
I wonder why you dread the rain;
invulnerable part of the same nature,
are the two of you not likewise?”

“Don’t you dare to claim,
we would be akin.
It is not the nature I am reaching for,
it is the acceptance towards it.”

-

“Oh, young hiker,
where is it you will go?
Is the wind pointing your direction
or is it your confidence?”

“Oh, you settled human,
no answer I will give to you.
A path, no doubt, exists,
the way but is concealed.”

All of us began as sentences, stories,
untouched, unspoken,
craving a reader, a listener,
yet unable to abide,
fearing exclusion.

Now we are metaphors,
written in a shallow poetic form,
intellectually impaired,
unable to attain existence.

I spend every day and every night
swimming through my sorrow,
stuck on a brittle boat
with my absent shadow;
and after all these months,
forgetting habitats,
destroying every pattern,
it has to be said:
I hate myself
and you should hate me too.

Tears fall down your face
as you tear off the petals
off the rose I bought for you;
we both know
this will be the last time
you will speak my name.

And if you are a reader,
I beg you,
never stop listening
to the whispers
of every written word;
but be aware
each word,
you let inside your head,
will alter you,
in an unknown way.