ENVY

I'd like to think i have something to offer
that my life had meant something this far
but the truth is that i havent been an outlaw like dante
or a vagabound like bukowsky or hamsum
neither a revolutionary like hemmingway
i'm just too afraid of life

I'm just a common flower in a garden without hope
a being whit pride and the need to live
but i dont have the guts to get off my computer
my fancy books and my shitty job
i dont have to courage to live, so i deserve the coffin i live in.

For those that felt the same way and made a chance
i just have envy to them
they became weapon dealers or hedonists
but at the end i'm just here, wishing to live.