I follow a winding path

Yet it has no direction

I have a given task

Yet my result is full of imperfection

I have 11 years of life

Yet only 6 I remember

I spent all my time

Trying to be the top contender

But now I have general perspective

Of what a waste is the planet

Of how humans are simply a collective

Who convince themselves they have talent

But we will never see our true selves

As we will never see each-other

We will only see what we read from our bookshelves

And what we learned from our mother

So dear reader, I leave you

To the barren face of contemplation

You determine what is true

In this world of fictation