I wish it could be simple as that,
An old man wearing a hat

And yet, I am stuck with his pension funds,
And the way his sons and daughters run;

Like an old age home stuck with seizures,
I like my paints measured,

My skin itches, it cannot set me free
Like water colours are meant to be.

I like control and precision,
Just like their parent’s decisions.

Beyond the east the sunrise,
Beyond the west, the east;
There is no wonder, thirst,
Only monetary schemes,

The traveler in me seeks no streams;
The mind only hops on taxes and pills
Scheme, Marry or ****

BLOWHORN, BLOWHORN HENRY!
Anne creeps up in your philosophical nightmare
The headless chicken,
The world is in despair!

My shoes, these shoes,
Not biblically on wine,
Give me another soul Balthazar,
I'm running out of time

Balthazar, my Balthazar
Dear, Dear neurotics!
A cat and a mouse shall not make the house!

Dear Michelangelo,
shape David again,
maybe my nose, maybe my head,
Maybe my eyes!

Tell Da Vinci I am running out of my mind!

Do I have teenage hormones?
Because the inadequacy is kicking in,
It's the same old hour, the familiar claustrophobia
Of a dead moth

As he pushes the rock against the mountain,
I too am the same
Familiar faces in new carcinogens,
Familiar tasks, familiar name;

A black hole for the soldiers
As between the Russians and Ukraine,
I fight with my livestock
I fight to stay insane

I seek no poetry,
poetry is for the dead,
Men still want a dead wife
And for his dinner his wife's head

My leaves of clothes of wool and nicities
Are my cunning way to lure you into the future
The future starts with I,
F is for fathers who are mothers in disguise

Dear men, Dear Sir
I do not seek to abide your faith,
To be women is not about my *******

Sit down young man, you sound like a cat cry for a wolf's tale
You joke around about my future
When you are a joke as well

You push a girl child into another man's eyes
And then cry about a feminists' tale
You rupture her nurture, make her La Lorona,
See her haunt you in your dreams

DEAR SIR, NO NEWSPAPERS,
NO BUTLERS FOR YOUR SEAMS,
No man's cry is a woman's dream!

Peace be with you and your picket fence of excrements!