In deepest thoughts, I'm just a child still having a great future
But a pain I'm in returns me to the reality, my death is certain
As I long to be rewarded, recognized for suffering for my art
Not lusting wealth, I long to be seen as doing something great
Like a child waiting for my birthday, even more, to be beloved
If my work isn't one anyone recognizes, why should they be?
I know I'm a failure, that my work is basic, poorly considered
Why should I worry, I should commit, go forward to the end
Death will make of me whatever it may wish, I'll be emptied
My choices and the end result left me unable to be redeemed
Being so very bitter, in constant fear, and dreaming of an end
I'm left without an opportunity to dream, life's result is bent
If a reporter of my worthless existence, I should be ignored
Let the punishment fit all of my crimes, I've run out of time
Catastrophic failure took over my path, it leaves only wrath
“Possibly a man who hates the land should dwell on shore forever.
Alienation and
the long voyages at sea will compel him once again to
dream of it, torment him
with the absurdity of longing for something
that he loathes.” Yukio Mishima
