Too early

It was, is it not?
"No, you're wrong,"
I keep saying this to people;

Do I even stand correct?
Surely not.

I'm...
not yet.

Don't say it,
It doesn't feel so rewarding;
I'm not on a road
I am lost

Uncertain, and probably
delusional...
that's me

I'm standing still
it scares me that I can't move

Am I growing
or was I not?

Maybe, I thought I was.

What's with the words I speak?
I desperately think yet,
it cannot be written in ink

words are at the brink
of emptiness
so deep

What is wrong with me?

I'll wait for a few years,
to go out in the world
People are preparing me,
I know they need to

The world is confusing 'n such;
Many can be bad and harsh
But, now I prefer to stay in a big square box
fractions of solitude experienced in the dark
but uncertainty seeps through the heart
of an immature child that is yet to start

nothing was enough,
I really tried
maybe not much

as it is not sufficient
I do nothing
and tried

Everything.
everything, was it?

i sat idly on the floor
with headphones to
drown the thoughts and all

for my actions failed to express,
and so does my words.

I wish that I can grow
a garden out of words

that way,
I'll be as comforting
like the cold breeze
on a blissful night

then, seeing autumn
will feel so right

but, instead of those

I have this
glaring eyes,
that angers my father
every time

I'm envious of how people can be like sceneries,
so beautiful and alluring

yet, I am just...

I don't remember
many memories of comfort,
or maybe I'm just biased

since I forget how it is,
the time it ends

It's exhausting.

turn it up,
like music within a crowd
dance like those people in the club

cloud the thoughts
with noises

...so loud

-Br.

He wasn't sure,
and this is what irritated him.
This sense of helplessness is what he despised.

"You're not fond of this, but all you talk about is yourself, right?"
.
.
.
.
.
You.
.
.
.
.
.
you,
.
.
.
.
.
you,
.
.
.
.
.

you.



How egotistical.