Do not live my life it's hot and boren
Do not wish I swing pin and Paul,
Do not wish my throat were dried from my thoughts that drown my chin,i wish I were younger to change what I have become ..a masquerade on the ledge...
Be as my binary fill with even numbers match.. for you wouldn't understand, free from a cage..catched by your eyes
I find myself in the middle of two walls, one on epifany the other on dialogue,
You bleed me dry from your work and  sweat...
I please all but myself ..now I am pleased no more ..
I clap and you dance... Strange sounds of my land
A drum on a stick with a pack of frankincense
You beg me for unbelievable understanding when thy good dispises me..
Amitu the palm wine tapper was once a farmer so you said..
I will stay quiet till I meet you that day where the scorns and chains rebel for freedom....

Just how long must one decay.
Before enlightment knocks.
There must be a more sensible way.
Than merely staring at a sign.
"Under Construction".
Filling up the time with duplicates.
Hanging them to corresponding sites.
One for growing up.
A few for responsibilties.
Or just one to cover life In general.
Would it seem too ironic not to even finish the sign..
Or maybe just pesimism.
There are just too many negative adjectives to choose from.
With hands stained red from paint and blood.
One would be hard pressed to touch anything more.
Perhaps this is epifany in the making.
But to reach out to turn the pages
Means the story has yet to conclude.
So does remaining immobile.
Strip away existence.
Or just stall the darkness a bit more..
Either way.
The protagonist still draws breathe.
It is just a matter of how many more pages.
Until the last is drawn.