I have always believed empathy is neither curse nor gift,
but the talent of a kind soul.
While I criticize the absurd world,
I foresee sorrow and death,
yet yearn for them still.
People speak of freedom’s meaning
while waiting for its arrival,
yet in their words
are only chains.
My perfectionism—hollow, ignorant—
lets me breathe without end.
I try to change from wild grass
to a frozen rose,
withering and blooming,
both lonely confession
and cycle of life.
I hate the madness
unique to my thoughts—
so often imagining success,
while in life
dreams shatter into pieces.
And again—
rain falls outside my window…
