" 'I don't wanna grow old, '
I whisper to my mind,
'I have to be meant for more.'
At least my words, damn me!
Is it death, is it disappearing or is it running away,
What will bring them their worth, 
If you gave me a hint, I would grow a farm, 
I am trying to be a poet
And only to write, 
This is my home
And it's a war between the real and the wrong, 
You can mock me all you want
But you have to take away these words, They are not enough to heal
But they are something, 
They are something."