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My problem is a bit serious.
I am in love with cities I’ve never been to,
and people I’ve never met.
My heart is out at sea, where I’m all alone
and no one can bother me.
I like fruit I’ve never tasted and
melodies I’ve never heard.
My problem is that I like to swim with sharks
and sleep with the tigers,
that I befriend elephants and talk to lions.
I live in a jungle, I rest on trees, and I love everything that breathes.
The issue with me is that I have conversations
with the moon hoping that one day it’ll answer me,
and that I vacation on the sun so that maybe,
this ice inside my soul will finally melt.
I read my books upside down and my poems don’t ever rhyme.
My hair is always a mess, but it’s perfect compared to my head.
I watch revolution instead of television, and the only coke I do is diet.
My problem is that I’m a wild child.
That I write poetry in hope of saving the world,
that I pray for strangers hoping that one day they’ll return the favor,
and that I dream of brighter days, in a world that’s only getting darker.