Fears

I'm afraid of becoming different. I'm fearful of one morning being another person, of thinking too much, of questioning everything and trying to get away melancholy.


I'm terrified of knowing everyone, of saying hello to all those people and remembering their names, of not being timid, of being a kind and friendly person the people says I am. Of course, I am not that. I don't keep a smile on my life; neither is nice nor sexy.


I am too worried about thinking all time, about the conversations with myself and the healthy practices of waking up early, reading a lot, exercise and not eat meat. What will happen to me in this way? What will I become on this road? What will I do with the vacuum of no pain?


I don't want to be that handsome guy, I don't want the cute smiling I see on the mirrors every morning, I don't want to smell sweet. I don't know what is happening; I don't know what is different now.


I want my obscure Mondays; I need my unsolved dramas, the tragedy of being common and never get there. I miss the frustration of the apocalypse and the nightmares in the middle of the night. I almost forget the broken heart. I don't want to dance; I don't want to sing. I hate being popular.


I need my seductive darkness, the mysteriously broken guy, the difficult way of life. I can think of my plans or construct castles in the sky, but I need not keeping your memories just aside.


I can live with this, I can live with the thoughts, with the security and with the smiles. I can try to improve my records and be being a nice guy. I can talk one day right to the blue eyes, but don't know who's this person, and I don't know who's leaving behind.