To be able to be surrounded by people,
and still feel alone.
To be able to love with our soul,
and not feel loved.
To be able to own all the gold,
and still feel empty.
To be able to have nothing,
and yet be the richest,
because we have the warmth
of those we love.

We are all the villains,
of a poorly told story.

According to them:
The revolver sleeps,
with me under the pillow.

Nightmares,
dream of me.

I feed soup,
to the Boogeyman (and he doesn’t complain that it’s cold).

The ghost in my room,
leaves the light on (and asks to switch rooms).

I ended the war,
without firing a single bullet...
because the tanks surrendered via WhatsApp.

The devil,
offers me his soul.

The Grinch,
leaves me presents,
with the receipt for exchange.

The Bogeyman,
asks me for love advice.

I follow,
my own shadow.

Death,
asks me not to seek her.

And the end of the world,
says,
"See you later."

Many times,
I cannot breathe.

Many times,
I lose my breath,

That blow to my chest.

I need a dark room,
to be able to scream.

My mind
always sees tragedy.

Only thoughts,
without owners.

My hands sweat.
A sense of panic,
burning my soul.

Many times,
I leave things unfinished.

Many times,
I see walls
before my future.

I see chaos and catastrophe.

You are my dark side,
you are my ordeal.

You are an emotion,
that lasts two seconds.
You will not control my life.

I just need...
to breathe.
I will not die.

I just need...
to breathe.
I have not lost my mind.

I just need...
to breathe.
I just need...
to breathe.

I ask,
Why me?

When I see the old man,
sitting by my side.

An old man with a notebook,
listening to my monologue.

Saying,
that I am the one who's wrong,
for complaining about life.

But he doesn’t know
what it means to live in my skin,
to be the echo of a scream
no one wants to hear.

And I care,
because I’ve always
been the one who's wrong.