Only spontaneous words, no ink nor keyboard, simply me to you. As society shuts rights of expression, sadly remains to believe that we all are free to share them. If using the self as a medium of freedom is a crime. . . Then farewell to content and depth.
Are You Done Yet?
Among those lines that are yours, I am lost. You paint with letters that you have mistaken for knives. Depth is the excuse that you defend; rather call it vain.
Missed. I have missed the call. Misunderstanding. MIS-everything. Are you done yet? ARE-YOU-DONE-YET?
No, I am no victim. We both are. The saint, the sinner, on each shoulder, both fucked up. That’s us. Brilliantly admirable. We have dried the river in between ground and ether.
I am done now. Dead for many nights, the renewal appears as just a shine. Pieces were all blown away; scattered, blasphemy of mine.
Are we done now?