Enjoyed that warm moment clustered around
fresh, home-baked bread sharing several
slices, gobbled butter melting deceptively,
now I am resigned facing after-effects,
so I read my sad storybook
I dreamed of studying literature, found
dissecting my favourite books to be cutting
up corpses, destroying beauty by analysing
constituent parts; only special kinds of
spiritual and juvenile books
could provide my emotional needs - but
acclaimed works of literature do not infuse
my life with inspirational needs to survive
in a void where my original being is
exorcised by demands of modern society
Just like the main character in my book,
mentally disturbed and fragile, growing
tired of life he simply jumped off a bridge;
I am not alone in this fight to find meaning,
Beethoven said his life was a nightmare
His body a prison in which his spirit was held
hostage – at least I am in good company…
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