How many times i wanted to choke
the suffocating friction in the throat
the horrible guilt
and for an absurd bill
it builds archetypes and theorems
almost like the sting of the silent return to their seats
often in support of my thesis of inadequacy
i find myself with bullets to the heart fury
asking if anyone could make me weep with joy
or at least leave me a scar
to display on holidays.
It remains the expectation of pardon him shaking lips
the amassing of cards crumbles all my certainty
and if i were to give in to impatience of the incorrectness
finally I know where to go what to dare
before being devoured by boredom worms
or the little light of the time that deludes you that there deludes
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