Some people are always in the side of out,

You can see them hiding behind the crowd,

The outsider always looks a bit lost,

The outsider will never get a toast.

Some people are not born alive,

Some people do not know how to survive

the reckless melancholy and dreadful touch of love.

They try too hard,

Talk too much,

Smile too bright,

Laugh without heart,

Notice the dying fly,

Translate its last goodbye,

Write a song on it,

Draw its last portrait

And they will never forget.

Outsiders will run away from us,

We don’t know to which side or path,

And usually we don’t even care.

Outsiders are sorry, for not being well,

They know that usually they misbehave,

They fight, they curse, they poop,

And maybe even spite on your mood.

Some people just need to get lost,

So maybe someone can find them and host,

But the side of out has very few guests

wolf howls,

Night owls,

And maybe, just maybe

A Handful of red dried flowers.