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I can write… about random things.

I don’t know if the words I drop

land softly on the heart,

or fall like leaves nobody notices.

I write feelings

raw, unfiltered,

like whispers running wild in a storm.

But will I ever train myself

to be the writer I dream to be?

I don’t take abuse.

I don’t wear chains around my voice.

This

this is not who I am.

I used to write love letters…

for strangers, for lovers,

hoping their hearts would bloom like spring.

Love happens.

Life happens.

Sometimes both feel borrowed.

I shoot bullets of emotion

random thoughts

into random skies,

for random souls living in corners

I’ve never seen,

with intentions softer than morning light.

And this world

this world is chaos in costume.

A circus of chance,

a map drawn with shaking hands.

Tandems, pandoms, candoms

I make up words

just to feel alive again.

Cause I

I’m a random guy

with random nerves,

random dreams.

Random is my name,

because nobody really knows me…

Maybe that’s freedom.

Maybe that’s lonely.

Maybe

it’s everything.

So leave it.

Let the world stumble as it will.

Let thoughts wander barefoot.