Hiding in the shadows with the voices
punching, trembling- echoing all over;
painting and scratching on the dirty dirty walls,
cutting off my ear for WHY! WHY AM I NOT BEING HEARD!?
I haven’t come here to be remembered only after my death.
Come to think of it- I wish not be remembered at all.
Those who are important to me, already know the real me.
And I’m certain won’t forget me.
Boy, that’s more than enough.
What I want- what I wish, dream and chase after…
Is for that, which comes out of the ink of my pen.
The written.
Now that will remain carved.
Oh, in the hearts of beautiful people.
And I, for once- will live to see it happen.
For I don’t want to be Kafka.
I shan’t want to be Galileo.
I refuse to be Dickinson.
And I will NOT be
Vincent Van Gogh.
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