Why are you angry?
Throwing falchions at windows,
sucking blood through empty reflections,
because you can't contain yourself.
You are always looking
in the houses abandoned thousands of ages.

What makes you angry?
Anxiety of solitude abound.
Aplomb of insecurities scream aloud.
You are not young anymore:
centuries of weight hanging over those clouds.
Crawling and craving daylight underneath the misty graves,
and nights swinging with rabid rats for piece of tube,
Don’t try to hide; you are finally ashore.

Beaten and ripped through young years.
Mirrors with mosaic of haunted faces,
reflections that you can't bear...