No prompt, I was just triggered by the idea that my problems don't matter.
Like mist settled on leaves,
I wonder if my existence
is merely my fake belief.
Like a delicate Lily
I am called pretty.
I wonder what they like?
Is it the unique
pretenses I wear?
Or is it my smile?
Is it the way,
my ragged self hides.
Like soft showers of rain.
I wonder if they hear
when I call for help.
Or when I stare
into some unknown place.
Like a pebble on roadside.
I wonder if I exist
because I have heard
My problems don't.