I'm afraid of reflecting on myself.

The pressure of expectations of the selves over the years leaves a bitter emotion.
I want to stop writing.
I feel cold.
Palpitations.
The fingers want to retract into balled fists.
The instinct is to curl into fetal position.
The voice lets out a primal moan of agony, of what the self has been through yet knows it hasn't gone through utter despair so the moan fades into a whimper.
The eyes want to close, the eyelids squint, the eyebrows scrunches, the forehead raised.
Irregular breathing.
The back of the hand smashes into the wall behind him.
The fingers loosen.
Silent screaming.
The soul cries out.


..............................................................­...Haaah...


I need a glass of water.

Where is the lord on your mouth?
Where is the lord on your mind?
Money is your luck second?
Luxury is your lucky second.
Lucky second of death is nobody’s mission.
Making money in a second is our mission.
Corrupt is a man, where are men of good morals?
Corrupt is a woman, where are women of good morals?

Yeses, The Senior thought we can live without money.
****, The Senior for fools, he do not know life goes via money.
The Senior for bustards he will be poor forever.
Haaah haah, ******* are all the luck second of money  
Surely they think they will revivify in elevators via money.
****, haah what a messed up sonnet called luck second forever.

Written By: The Senior Date undefined