though my feet would like to wander
through busy streets and lonely waves,
my mind won't move and always craves
to spread its roots among
the blackened cells of eternal dirt.
this body of mine is weak,so weak,
a collection of painful bones
pinned down against a meat sheet,
waiting to die
and longing to live...
am I important?
am I a hero in somebody's eyes?
am I enough of a man to make it all
stupid mind...stupid lies...
time flies like a forgetful sparrow
which I cannot trap in a cage,
be it memory or pen...
is this effort all in vain?
don't answer that,sweet stranger,
I'd rather close my eyes and pretend
I'm in the twilight of a dream...
I'd rather be a song.
I'd rather be a poem.
I'd rather be alone...