• I’m writing lines – it’s like a sentence,
    A kind of punishment or worse…
    No need for crimes, but I’m still wasting
    My precious time for blood and bones.
    I’m writing lines – my heart is useful,
    A kind of paper – full of scars…
    I need to die for your amusement,
    I kill myself to make you start.
    I’m writing lines – it will be poem,
    Or even pretty clever song…
    I’m telling lies to be immortal,
    I’ll never say that I am wrong.
    I’m writing lines – my heart is bleeding,
    I feel myself like bag of waste.
    “A kind of style”, you’ll think when reading.
    But you will never see my face.