have tried to compose some lines again. I have tried to say how I feel or what I am wishing, but my inspiration has lessened. Who declared that lie? Who said we could stand up again after being beaten up? My fingers have no magic to type, my head has no words to express, and my feelings are at the death’s door while I am witnessing the preparation of my black wedding.
Now, I dare you to say that I did not run the mile. I dare anyone to say I have been worthless; I am everything but a loser. Losers have been winners sometimes and winners have learned how to accept their failures. If today my strengths faint and my reasoning fades, do not feed my desires of covering myself up with ashes and cold pouring soil. I could not write until I asked why a bunch of you observed and most of you parodied me.
How many of you, specters have been brave enough to draw his grieve, and mourn his writings? Criticizing a falling old tree is not a task to be fulfilled by someone who does not know anything about woods.
I could not try, now I am writing though.