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without the same worries,
maybe, in the end I just got tired.
I almost have nothing else to tell.
So I feel my head empty,
and I write things on an empty head.
Strange, isn’t it?
Yet it is so.
Finally, to tell the truth.
I am really broken
at a certain point…
I write on my empty head,
I have almost nothing more to say,
and I write about nothing.
This poem may not have therefore,
Maybe it’s a joke,
yet, I don’t feel “forced” to write it at all.
After all, you know,
I had other plans for my future,
which has now become the present.
Before there was
The need to carefree.
And I write words that don’t exist …
Still, I write the same.
Almost convinced that he is thoughtless,
that good things happen,
and they arrive.
Or maybe it’s just the train,
on which I climb.