The Oar

As if I haven't found
The faith that makes me what I am

It's the thousand voices of originality
And maybe the starlight of insights
That makes vain, the promises I made at those sleepless nights

I feel like standing on the deck of a ship
Watching other numerous desirable ships sailing across,
And on my hands,
a pair of oar that I've carved myself.

It's a ship, not a boat.
Yet I cannot let go of those crude oars,
Becuase it defines my being,
and the imperfection.

It is the trace of forbearance
and me being a child

So let go of the ship
Along with the envy of ascendancy
Because I'd rather row a boat
than leave the oars I carved myself-
during those endless nights,
during those disappointed blames,
and during those nights
that helped me get over with the loss of courage
and admit who I am.

The ship departs without a master
Becuase she chose to be with her wretched oar
And I watch it sink,
Sink,
Sink...
Under the foams of toxic dreams..

And I sing for it,
Last but not least,
The requiem of puberty