I wish to author some great masterpiece, be it literature or song or dance-craze choreography. Bone-breaking, I’ve learned, is the latest to the stage. Perhaps, I’ll bring bone-weapon wielding, permanent scar-inducing, blight your life forever, switch it up, switch it up.
My desperation to manifest begins to cross the lines of human language.
They still won’t get it. But I get it.
I’ve always got it coming, so it seems.
I see my life in stanza.
Verse, verse, chorus.
Verse, verse, chorus.
Bridge...
The play through, the run, the birth pangs.
The play through, the run, the stalker.
Run and pay, start over.
The play through, the hard run, the good attempt.
The play through, the falling down, the surrender.
Run and pay, it starts over.
What I wish is love.
I was born with it even if I went away from it.
The going away was but for a while.
But there is no reproof from the going away, it seems.
You go, you stay. Or you pay, in any case.
How many verses?
Where is crescendo’s peak?
What comes after the bridge?
I wish to pen my name, at last.
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