The idea of writing repulses me,
The words gawking at my brain,
Like starved hounds without pedigree,
It feels, like my poet went insane.
It is in vain –
The blood. The smudge. The pain.
It is in vein.
The idea of becoming commercial,
Following advises of greedy wolves…
I’d rather take path of controversial,
Sing for my pleasure unedited tunes.