I am not afraid to be myself,
Especially if life is boring,
I am standing here by wooden shelf
Of books with ordinary stories.
My book from school with tiny shade
In black-and-white with silver frame.
It’s me, or was, it’s very vague,
With fading letters of my name.
I look at other yellow pictures,
That also smell not very fresh:
Another student, student, teachers...
Is this the past or mental trash?
I wanted to embrace the world
With my variety of dreams,
Believing in the strength of word,
Regardless how bad it seems.
And now I am afraid to see
Through something shiny like a glass:
I am empty, aging, or perhaps
My eyes enjoy deceiving me…?
I am too afraid to be myself,
Because the life is too complex.
It's time to get another shelf,
Another birth, another sex :-)