Too young, too old.
Too thin, too bold.
Too poor, not to rich.
Too shy, too bitch.
Too light, too lazy.
Too angry, too crazy.
Defined in advance what is good, what is bad.
Everything else means you are mad.
Like a postage stamp.
Bearing the head of Mr. Trump.
I found myself in this age.
Where the author should be at a different page.
Describing a sleep killing scream.
And wishes to be lean.
I may have been gifted with extraordinary ink.
Or I was hurt under a steely sink.
Yeah, I’m supposed to have fun.
Or comment the current situation in Kazakhstan.
I’m supposed to fulfill goals of a stable job.
Or wear a grey shirt with the letters – GAP.
I’m supposed to share photos with this new generation.
Or vote, protect a corrupt nation.
I’m supposed to proudly wear a ring on my fourth finger.
Or visit sold-out concerts of your favourite singer.
I’m supposed to return the coins for a borrowed roof.
Or convince the partner lying next to me, you are the prettiest smurf.
I’m supposed to move behind a windshield.
Or visit a party and feel the guilt.
If you don’t belong to them.
They will label you – not a worthy gem.
The facial expression suggests – stranger.
Gestures reveal – danger.
Maybe a reason for navigation.
Which has brought me to isolation.
No mutual topic.
Over there are flowers, here – just a brick.
Everybody around, riding a fabulous wave.
My soul, developing in a cave.
Everybody around following a strict plan.
I’m just trying to become a better man.
Such a pleasure.
To invest during leisure.
I’m just trying to connect the distant dots.
To overcome obstacles gifted by the gods.
I just want to bring light to my own existence.
Wrap my knowledge into a cruel sentence.
Occasionally, a dry tongue.
Cries, it takes too long.
Occasionally, a heart cut by loneliness.
Beating sounding sadder than jazz.
Boy, don’t look through the window!
Don’t let me go.
Flowing through the vein.
Lack of sensitive connection.
Supporting my selection.
Maybe the reason for most memories.
Shooting bullets like non-empathic enemies.
If I die alone.
Please, mark my name with a beautiful stone.
I often convince my inner voice – nothing to offer.
I was born to suffer.
To drown in my own melodies.
Deep under shiny trophies.
Ignored, because of nothing to give.
Rejected, because I’m too quiet and naïve.
Maybe, I’ll never say an empty promise.
Forever sealed by a shallow kiss.
Maybe, I’ll never take somebody to school.
Where they teach how to not break the rule.
Maybe I’ll never experience a loud birthday celebration.
Exciting like a family vacation.
Maybe I’ll never fasten a seatbelt.
Guaranteeing a proud, happy end.
Probably too deep.
To plant a seed.
How can I create new life?
How can I serve a wife?
How can I own a favour?
How can I support a label?
How can I bake a cake?
How can I chill near a lake?
Can I achieve it now?
When I myself am totally lost.
Like a shadow of an invisible ghost.
When I myself swim between dirt.
When I myself often waste limited time.
From four to nine.
I’m sorry, I must take care of one existence.
Before I invite others to an underrated race.