Flying thoughts
All over in my head
It cannot be sought:
Words that I want to be read
There is always a dawn
But the sun never rises
There is always the first line of my poem
But I cannot end it
Why I can't anatomize my fruits?
Why I can't be like other youths?
Anatomizing their fruits with full cleverness
Then write down the basics they have seen with full blissfulness
Why whenever I start my poem,
Words are in a big bundle?
Albeit, I am solemn
I'm always getting in a big muddle
Why the dawn never ends?
Why the clouds never rain?
I wonder, when will I be able to mend things?
Tomorrow? The other days? Or there will be never be a fin
