I glorify anecdotes of victory
Of scarcity, living in misery
And surviving to tell the tale
I daydream about mourning
About giving up my dignity
Sleepless nights and hunger.
Just to witness the birth
Just barely grasping a bit
Of what I now have in abundance
To hear from another mouth
"That's rough, buddy, that's hard"
Those moments when crying
On paper was neither the second nor the first
Victimized mental monologue
Undiscriminated, underrated
Perhaps, I could handle it better
This time, I would finish
Just one more broken heart
Only until breaking the glass ceiling
Exchanging life for my dream
Just because now time passes
And my body feels like mine
No headaches, no stomachaches
Not crying alone, not just crying anymore
Even if there's no gun over my head
Telling me I'm about to expire
Can I write just for fun?
Or was it a desperate call
To simply step up and do the damn thing?
It makes me another addict with a pen
Self-sabotage self-destructive
Heminway morrison and plath
But to write , I enjoy myself so much
Makes taking the time feel like a crime.