Can someone tell me how,
give me a potion of drug, a mouthful of wind.
let me narrate myself in the most innocent manner.
Growing up isn’t the easiest thing for me to do.
Climbing the ladder of age can’t be more confusing than
the 100 meter square maize.
I have lost my narration,
And here I am, the first day of 2016.
Losing hope in humanities,
Dreams and passions, they all are illusions and delusion.
All the butterflies living in my stomach, have died
drown in factual analysis.
Someone, please prescribe a potion of drug,
a mouthful of wind
and set my butterflies alive.