a conversation with a friend

It gets better.

I do not know how nor when

I lie to my myself,

I tell her, fake it until you make it

but I don’t think she's buying it,

.She is too smart to fool

Yet, she acts like she believes 

in herself, in me, in miracles.

Every night she makes up stories,

you'd lose your mind,

counting the people in her head.

(this is the cause of her headache,

 the constant noise and pain)

a billion words crowding at the door,

begging to be freed into a crumbled paper.

I think she can get it all figured out

if she would just slow down.

She screams:

"do you think this is normal?"

I tell her:

"Normal is not all that it seems to be

no one has a grip on their soul,

you are busy trying to tie yourself down

to notice how everyone is running wild

you have no clue how impossible– 

it is to be normal, it is all just an act.

Poor you, how would you know? 

When you look nowhere but at the mirror

circling out every little flaw, picking yourself apart.

You don’t even think, that without them you wouldn’t be me."