WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME #POETRY

What’s wrong with me?

I feel like a pen that refuses to write… like a pen wanting to be something else.

I feel like a grass wanting to smell like cosmos… Like a grass wanting a butterfly to touch me.

I want to lay on my bed all day, but would she lay with me? I want a dream with her but where she might be?

This is not a poem or an essay. This is me. And I don’t fucking know what I’m doing or where I’m going, or even know what I am going to be. Maybe, I hope someone will tell me. Maybe, I hope I understand the world.

I want to hold your hands on some mountain trails. I want to look at your fair skin being kissed by the mountain sun. I want you to whisper my name in front of the sea of clouds next to us. But would you climb with me?

Now, I think I am still a pen refuses to write and a grass wanting to wear petals. I think I would still have to be me and live with all the wrong reasons and wrong answers for the question “What’s wrong with me?”.

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