Discouraging underdevelopment

How many times have I played the role of Being.
Not beating with no man's heart, thundering,
holy excitement - rather with a stifling, nameless vulgarity,
as one who in dignity looks on and waits for Death.
I chuckled in my own whimsical, childish purity.
His reaper fingers were snow-stained.

Lying on the hospital bed, I suppose,
...tied up like a hunted animal, my time had not yet come,
for it was only later that I would be tempted to suicide.
I was a small, faithless man
Can now no more return from hence,
- those who will follow me on the long journey cannot yet be prepared
To honour themselves and now,
like blind men stumbling in their helpless lethargy.

I am daily spilling out some treasure-like, irreplaceable spark of happiness.
Someone steals it, uses it or crushes it.
to make use of a refutable idea:
my eyes, accustomed to letters, turn into gaping holes
and reads only pain in the homes of vulnerable souls.
- It is boiling, it is constantly turning to dust
and the outside world is not for a moment absent.

Within my walls of solitude it is transformed into another state,
which, if age were measured, would make me a young old man.
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.

The melodious eyes whispering of secrets Light more and more indifferently
And glow;
In the walls of whirlwind hope, the survivor and the hopeful vomit!