What a naive boy;
Born not of royalty,
Born not of peasantry.
Standing in a podium of censures,
In front of a thousand "acquaintances".
Too scared to say something wrong;
Too scared to move by his will.
He is bent by what they want him to be;
Restricted to become a cyclical mind.
Yet, he rebels their laws,
He became secretive.
He hides under the cloak of a dead man.
He sees the world black and white.
He becomes dead.
Yet, one becomes a catalyst;
Making his heart beat lively;
Making his stomach filled with butterflies;
Making his head flutter with thoughts.
He'd wish that one understand,
Yet so close, yet very distant.
He was too weak to speak his heart;
The catalyst favored another.
He is lost.
He is dying once more.
His heart loses rhythm.
His stomach churns.
His eyes dim and close.
In his dreams, he sees,
He dances,
With the catalyst.
Too bad he's too weak.