DESPONDENT UNDERDEVELOPMENT

How many times have I played the role of Being. Not with a beating heart of nobility, with a thundering, holy excitement - more with a stifling, nameless vulgarity, as one who faces death with dignity. I chuckled in my own whimsical, childish purity. His reaper fingers were snow-stained. 

My time could not yet have come, lying in a hospital bed, as a hunted beast, tied up, for only later could I be tempted to suicide. My stumbling, faithless little man cannot now return from here, - those who will follow me on the long journey have not yet been prepared to appreciate themselves and now, like the blind, stumble in their helpless lethargy. 

I am daily spilling out some treasure-like, irreplaceable spark of happiness. Someone steals it, uses it, or even crushes it to make sure that it benefits from the refutable idea: my eyes, accustomed to letters, turn into a gaping hole and read only pain in the homes of vulnerable souls. 

Within my walls of loneliness it is transformed into another state, which, if ageing could be measured, would make me an old man at a young age. The frailty of his dreams, and his magic power, have not yet failed me. Our common secrets, like a redemptive awakening, we bear alone. - We have rather begged many times by hand or mouth instead of giving. 

Melodious eyes whispering of secrets Light and shine more and more indifferently; Within walls of whirlwind hope Surviving and hoping vomit!