It’s odd

I write

But I don’t want to be seen,

I don’t want to be noticed.

Almost as if my words

They existed on a wall

That people read,

maybe take a picture,

but he will never know who wrote them.

I would like to be read,

but it almost embarrasses me

receive compliments.

As if I were to be

Only me

My only audience.

I would like to be seen

Without taking up space,

without leaving a trace.

To be heard,

but staying away.

Almost as if you were afraid

To say things right,

in the right order.

Maybe so

It would make sense

For anyone who wants to feel things the way

Which they consider perfect.

So that I stay

A word on a wall,

A wallflower,

a flower that sprouts from the streets.

.

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