do I have to stop now from writing poems
when my words now never wanted to rhyme at all,
when ocean was already turned into desert
when time has left me unknown and wounded,

when there's no one who melted me with love
when consequences told my mind just to stop,
when fragile promises were already broken
when the azure sky has torn out into pieces,

when lies still sound better than the truth
when this life has ever found nothing to prove,
when I'm tired for that girl I've been searching for so long;
do I have to stop now from writing poems?