My time's dead,
My poetry's fed.
Stucked on a yard
Where blue girls turn yellow

Feeling useless
For this crowd of frogs.
The door's speaking
A silent language.
My anguish
Won't vanish - with a broom.

Felt a strange
In my own body
Drinking wine
On a haze
Take me somewhere
I want to go.

All this intrest
turns me loathed
I'll gulp it up
Looking for better days.
I'm in seclusion
But I keep it quiet.