My father once told me to set reachable goals not imaginary ones,
But I set imaginary ones
Because I can’t get enough
And even if I could get enough I would
Still laugh at my father’s words
Because I choke and I stutter and
it seems like I shutter.
His words sound like butter that needs
to be melted

And I can’t help it.

I keep thinking that he was wrong,
so I go on
I set imaginary goals,
not reachable ones, not real ones,
Not those that sound-like-routine ones.
My father once told me that it’s too much,
It was in March,
the end of my school year.
I couldn’t hear the words he said afterwards.

They say that if you repeat something
over and over again, it’s becomes real
So I kept repeating that
nothing was wrong,
My vocal chords were jumping
out of my throat,
But nothing is wrong
Nothing is wrong
Nothing is wrong.

It sounds like a song. A still unwritten song, a soon to be written song.
I know that I belong somewhere else
but will I pass the test?
I press my face
Against disgrace my father placed
right in my chest.
I fill the void that I avoid and it is  
Sharper than the knife. I live a life,
But not the life.

And those goals, the real ones,
That sound-like-routine ones,
The reachable, not imaginary ones,
The ones that would make
My father proud,
They keep hunting me down.
They told me to repeat one thing over
And over and over again and I began
To scan

My own words that I say at least
A thousand times a day:
«Nothing is wrong,
Nothing is wrong,
Nothing is wrong»
I still go on with these imaginary ones
That sound-like-a-dream ones,
I holler and scream but my father
Doesn’t hear.
So I’m here:

I choke, I stutter and I really
do shutter. And his words are like
Butter that I spread on my bread
But I can’t eat it.

Am I defeated?

Or is it just my brain telling me
To stay strong?
My father once spoke to me,
But I went on
Because nothing is wrong.
Nothing is wrong.
Nothing is wrong.