Wishing for a coffin, I hope someone nails,
My dead soul which has so drastically failed.
How much can I wait?
You hurt me, you use me, am I your bate ?
People say it's a sin to live in the past,
But this past of mine never ends, and I wonder  how long it will last.
I wish I could have a river made of ink,
The land would be my paper and in words I would sink.
~*~