One, I want to leave the confines
of this sweet agony of relentless frustration.
Two, I want to open the door, jump out of it
and break my skull as I tumble down
through the highway that said
that my life will be just like butter.
Two again, I crave for the rigid pencil,
No. 2 with sharp points and clean shavings,
I desire the smell of the warm paper,
its comforting smoothness and fairness.
I want the smell of plastic erasers,
the cleaning powers of ever stroke,
the clarity, the magic of every blow,
where dust will just fly like how your troubles die.
I want to lick it all over, I want to write.
I want to sketch, I want to draw the eyes.
I am in need of a serious rescue. I am in deep danger.
I pray for the day where I could get out of this slumber.
A cube of sames and similars and copies and inspirations.
A room full of pretense and normality.
A box full of uncertainties and vague litanies.
This is the Limbo, the cyclical flow of whats.
An everlasting attempt for escape.
I pray for a day where I could gaze unto the horizons
the hot sun burning my pale skin.
To wet my feet on the boiling waves of the beach,
and feel the grains of sand thrusting through my very soul.
Desperately shouting for the chance to scream,
to blame everything to everyone except me,
to slap each dementing figure’s face,
to demand that the world exist in my own twisted way.
I cry for my freedom. I cry for my mind’s relief.
The opportunity to make the mark, on my own,
through my selfish designs and figures.
I want to be evil. I want to resist order.
Three hundred and sixty two tears of plea.
Let my heart learn the real feelings of nature.
How does the core become dense? How do you make it feel?
As long as synthesis is forced, magic is faked,
I know that for the two hundred and thirty first time,
I will cry for my emancipation.
Three. I should wait. I should just wait.
Helpless but I will wait.
Helpless but I will prevail.