October 19, 2009
By Anonymous

My days were outnumbered
They are planned out tactfully
Or at least conveniently
As regards, the clock or wristwatch
I have not gotten any
If the time is the tick of a clock
I am as well living in an “hourless” house
Eighteen years of life, there is nothing profitable
Was it my age, or my imbecility?
I rise at seven, eat breakfast
And clean up till then
And finally walk up the street for leisure
But the end, nothing virtually comes to be a penny
It is quite embarrassing to be among girlfriends
No money to be lively, nothing like that
It torn my heart, like a thunder on a thin flashy trees
It has made me felt such intentions,
Life is a mess of corn-meal dumplings
Even some pick-me-ups can’t gain me some energy
All my entire life, I always dreamt of dreams
Dreams of becoming a person with ambitions, an an early age
An important dream, the hope of becoming “who are you”
I am the manager of a restaurant, or maybe a landlord
Maybe I would be better, with life and living it

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