I have always felt this feeling,
The aching tooth, the tension building,
Woe after want after weeks of waiting,
The taste of tomorrow, of months preceding.
The march of time as it stands in place,
The same soft hands on the same sad face,
Wasting time, letting my mind race,
Shifts and sighs and pearly gates.
Wait for the death of art, of love.
Of what lies below, what I hold above
All else, for midsummer lies in lust
And I pale in comparison, in summer sun.
When the wait is up, I'll be the same.
Nobody to love, I will remain
And grow up and study parts and diseases.
But however grown, I'll always be missing pieces.
Unfit to be die ganze velt,
But not wanting life or anything else,
I wait to be damned by the laws of man
With the same sad face in the same rough hands.
