I am sick and poetry's my cure.
It cannot help me, but i am drawn to it.
I do not care if its vile or pure,
just give me words, so be it.

The words is what i need and not the sound,
i search for melancholy they drive.
I spit on grammar and syntax they are bound,
and lone for feelings they keep inside

The world will never accept my point,
they use forms and figures and God knows what.
I'll *** on walls of every moment,
with all the zeal and vigour i've got.