The ink within white sheets are blood in their eyes,
As wounded I’m not but bleeding to death,
As small I am better than now when I’m worse,
And livelier world in heavenly curse;
Now critical aims in burning abode
As footprints no more, no walking in gold
But traces of blurry whispering soul
Without a promise of walking in fold;
No, no grief, no swelling remorse
No meeting of something absurd to behold
A hope nonexistent exists in their souls
Curse in their hearts they don’t think to have sown;
But no, bitter fruits they insist I will not
Succumb to some passions when misunderstand
They do, my words as demonic verses
In poetic curse that deviled my hand.
