You know, as much as I wanted to be versatile
in writing my own poems, there's just no cheating
my way on becoming a good poet.

I wouldn't be able to artistically write something
if I try to think too much on a certain subject
but when I try it obviously comes out as some
pretentious piece of untrue events and I think
I could blame aging for this but I just can't
get away with it.

Nowadays, there's really nothing much going on,
just dull sunlight, lazy afternoons and somber evenings.

Tonight I drank a couple of can of beers just to check
if something's going to come so whatever's going to be
written here could either be just something as random
as intentional I intend it to be or as often as it gets;
dull.

Mentioning it only makes me feel the humidity of the weather
and the uncomfortable embrace of insecurity.

I always find myself deep choked by this fantasy that keeps
lingering in my mind:

I let go of myself long ago and I am always afraid to admit
that I am going nowhere, heading nowhere, a nobody who
wants the spotlight but without really wanting to do anything
to achieve any of it.

It's a pity pit mud show down here and it stinks, it stinks quietly
on my own and the stench of the sorry sobs I don't walk on
anymore. I had so many plans in life, one of them was to
start some indie band but the people I meet were all
rockstars in their own imaginary world like I do.

There was no progress at all.

One time during college, some of my colleagues read my poems
and called them all cliché; a motivation to lay low.

It didn't bother me that much because I didn't knew the meaning of the word back then so **** me.

Fast forward to today, I am hunted by everything.

I can't escape any of this today
but it's not a problem,
really.