Bleeding times, ruthless measures,
All of that immense pressure,
Suffering in silence,
Commencing to the violence.

Laughing through the pain,
The patterns form a chain,
Through every storm, I change my tarp,
As my edges turn razor-sharp.

Power restored in my hands,
When i take on land,
An internal war,
Raging onshore.

Tied to their demands,
Drowned in sinking sands,
A puppet, a pawn,
But not for long.

A lost soul of hope,
Holding tight on this rope,
The wrath under my skin,
Will break generations of within.

How could you know what the sweet-sad childhood remembrance, the playful joy, the childish-naive curiosity, could have been known to the moment, when the sacred gates of free sense were secretly adopted by the understanding mind, the maternal care.

That the footprint of the long-standing eternal love may never disappear in the periodical limits of the time, as they are now in the depths of the drummering perits, and as dormant Atlantis Continents are still patiently waiting for them to be re-addressed in the name of sincere emotions.

It is often so worrying everyday life in Sififus's burden on how dark the clouds are sitting on each average human heart. Or  
How unfair was all the bice-shaded bumps that we once learned to walk, and while some were crying and giggling on the ground, others sprinkled themselves and went on, glorifying the joy of movement alone.

That momentary happiness may be worth more than the continuous forty years of lasting, the bitter -sweet, lasting isolation. That nowadays there are more and more worm-heart tarcks and fewer pearls in human stars.

How do you know that when someone as a teenager was not seen in the cross -section of the mirrors looked like a duckling duckling - but the one who was meant to be. How could a crowd know what it is like to be ill in the deadly round of the dear unexpected-suddenly minutes, and the passing away from birth is captivated. I say with questioning sadness: You have no idea!

They already say - not only the wiser ones - if they still exist here on this Earth, that we will surely fall a lot, my friends! Even Existence will become more and more expensive, and as soon as one or the other willful moles-mums are kicked out of good-sounding jobs, where it is exceptionally not necessary to work thirty-six hours straight, the state of permanent-total weightlessness will still be in half of our lives, if it happens.

It's as if the external and internal gravity has completely disappeared, since deeper psychological and subconscious forces are at work there, even if anyone has any conscience left to do it. Because those who already step inside, they wander by themselves looking for a way out through a life left behind.

It is no longer possible for the creative person to simply put his head down to creative, feasible ideas, since the so-called about filthy-***** financial sources, sponsors, and producers who, with little brains, are even willing to finance a private project - of course with a fat, twisted profit -.

This is how the synthetic, uncertain Future devours and inhales its unsuspecting victims in seconds. My false metronome keeps clicking in the ears of people who are hard of hearing, and even now they don't really understand which decision or answer would be easier: to survive this *******, confused Whole, or to hide in your tiny holes and mouseholes, maybe everything is easier there?!

The last, ending fatigue almost deliberately wears down, withers, and determines almost everyone. The great Nothingness of the single, finite minute-moment, just like a sloppy lighter will - maybe - extinguish itself now, just like a stray matchstick...

It is unnecessary to take back the polite right of self-indulgence - he is afraid. In vain! Amaga reduced to cordivat is proper, good manners, etiquette. And although - supposedly - the code of conduct is still in full force in some places; if one catches a brainless wild fowl **** for a change, it is better not to engage in intellectual and literary ramblings, but to simply move on with measured English.

There are more than a dozen businessmen-oligarchs, but there are only very, very few patrons who support culture, and they don't support just anyone, only those who can turn over their capital with a huge profit. People believed that everything of value, the golden mean, and humanity would one day find a way to the heart, to a well-considered, rational mind, but in reality we are once again at the point where everyone is playing against each other, playing the rules of the game that were still thought to be solid, and throwing a fit easily at certain mementos, to emotions belonging to humanity.

Because the tiny pieces of the given existence - if true, if not - are even now more and more consistently defining the unfinished facts of the smooth Present. Because the things that have happened at this moment are a bit clichéd together with the have-nots, which would still have been nice to implement in one way or another.

On the ribbon of the infinite world, they exchange messages that can be amplified to the point of pettiness, because they have long since forgotten what honesty can mean, when a stray teardrop unexpectedly falls on no man's land, and uncaring palms catch the trembling half-chest. It would be nice to follow one or two more rules, so that people know exactly, feel that even though they are stumbling in one place in the Hyena World, they are still there, and that crazy point of reference exists!