I hate your phrases of,
'Life is a marathon' and
'Shoot for the stars'.
You tell me to imagine that life is
This, fantasy.
So what 'inspiration' am I left with when
the last page of the story book
Has been turned.
When I'm told that the stars
are actually out of reach,
When I tell you that I’m out of breath.

How can I begin to make my way in this world,
When you keep trying to change it?

She is a poem of his heart
He never disclosed
In front of anyone.

I cannot die but I'm not living either,
but mom;
tell me,
if I do well today,
am I going to live tomorrow?