What is the good of apology
poured in a seepage
you won't hear again
familiar tone of my neurotic shoes
on your spotless glossy staircase
you won't hear again
familiar tone of my timid knocks
to your metal door knocker

I incinerated all paper trails
dusted off the residues
through the driver's window
blown by a borderline legal speed

"It is least prudent to be burning bridges"
as if quoted on a projector screen
as a warning or a good advice
on initiation day to high-rise society
weave your strand to the web

I am done popping pills
to stay within the common denominator
watching his forehead streaks disapproval
at the synopsis of my hundred percent
expecting that there shall be a word later
to a close door meeting

I am barely oxygenated to live up to a title
and when I collapse on my personal couch
where it is okay to slouch or spill crumbs
I question if I'm just at a stage of breaking in
like burning heels from new shoes
or is this the eternal beat of success
and is it really all worth it

Am I a coward for throwing the towel
or am I brave to walk away
years of building bricks to my name
so I can live the truth?
But I cannot play a humbled face
to an amicable graceful exit
like (it was a pleasure working with you
thank you for the opportunity)
counting on an honorable mention
that I can use onward forward

Does it really matter how this one ends?
will blow up tires pothole after pothole
I will cruise under water
but I will never drive this road again
however smooth the curves
or how bright the freshly painted markings

A man who gets accustomed to his sickness
sorrow becomes his nicotine stick
as long as the air brings him oxygen
as long as the pipes carry water
as long as the bulbs defeat the pitch black
as long as the pilot light is not dead
to stream life to his burners

he would rather hide uncompromised
to disintegrate and rot in a cell of bleak mood
desensitized from such solitude
adopted to share his round table
sips from the same tea cup
like a long, long time tenant
like any bad habit, it's a love and hate affair

no hypnosis can persuade this stagnancy
but a genocide of his survival kits
like a razing fire ravaging his house
to the ground, pulverizing every inch of
his dismal comfort corners to a coal

absolutely barren
with only his emotional baggage left
he will relearn how to walk
to see how the daffodils sprawl at the hillside
to watch their chimney smokes disappear
for there would be no door to keep him in