hyperaktivitet

I will write something,

I told myself.

And I did.

It was a poem about a girl.

A broken girl,

Who wished she could run away.

It was a good poem,

And I was proud I'd written it.

Until I gave it to my friend,

And she said it was bad.

I threw it away.

Tore it apart.

It wasn't such a good poem

After all.