Not special

Catching air with my weak, fragile hand,
Its particles slip my fingers like dry sand,
Like elusive time I couldn’t store or keep or hold,
My useless hand, I’m just someone you can scold.

Catching air with my throat until I feel the cough,
Its particles flee the lungs until I burst out or blow off.
Like no reason could explain logic or sequential design,
My useless personality lacks the unique blood line.

I am not special. Anymore. To anyone to love…
I am not special. Just. A person to make fun of.
I can’t do magic, I even can’t do most ordinary things,
My useless hands even can’t be blamed as torn wings.

Catching water with my shaking hands, my palms,
Its drops are leaking through adopted wet realms.
Like that space could be without any cracks,
My useless sense of self is stuck in dirty sticky wax.

Catching water droplets and imaginary bubbles,
They burst when touching thoughts of troubles.
Like causality could help with my miss-understanding,
My gap in useless artificial intelligence commanding.


I am not special. Anymore. To anyone to love…
I am not special. Just. A person to make fun of.
I can’t do magic, I even can’t do most ordinary things,
My useless hands even can’t be blamed as torn wings.

On the second thought I may be special. Not to anyone. To me.
I may be special. Just. I can prevent my own flee.
I can believe that magic may exist. And I may be a witch.
My hands are drawing circles with time and space to make them glitch…