these days,

on the same hour

every week day,

i’m supposed

to kill somebody,

starting with myself,

was so easy,

‘cause i find myself

dead for so long,

for me

this is a mere prison,

these walls

where i sit so long,

and breath,

work, play around

with myself

in my head:

phallus & vaginas

deals of a great future,

shouldn’t be there in the first place?

the simple fact that i’m supposed

to sit here every day on the same hour

with the same people and their same weird phones,

they gave me a computer,...

wonder what to do with it, - play?

no breathing,

dare not move around

to find out

hard to

hard to

hard to

hard to

hard to

get out

depends on how you see it

by train, bus or boat?