Somtimes i ask myself,
Am i a copy of someone else,
Wandering on this soil,
looking straight without rest.

Looking outside my window, 
Feeling the cold winds breeze.
though it could be better,
if the time could sometimes freeze.

So i can look again,
and see if i can find something.
But while looking so hard,
i started seeing myself fading.

I sing myself to sleep,
hoping i can sing as a duet.
But im merely a writer,
and barely a poet.

Walking around,
with scars all over my wrist.
Because life without challenges,
will never be worth the risk.

Who am i? Im merely a writer,
and barely a poet.
In the end i found my answer,
deep down this broken sonnet.