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Suddenly I only see my own face among the crowd,
when there's still a little bit of trace I left behind.

Wandering through the cold precocious dark Sundays,
while searching for an appalling inspiration.

And when everything seems to be blue or grey,
I run in the street to catch the beat of my heart.

In the end, writing is likely to be the shelter,
where I exorcise my demons.

With a sleepy head I get out of bed for another week,
as the big bad world is calling.

I step in my shoes, there's so much to do,
no time for yawning.

By Friday, life has killed me.

-E-