Across an idle excuse
you make me feel bad.
In the middle of a no use
you bring yourself sad.
Contractions of a mind
to sane to enjoy.
A monologue I can't find
the reason I'm your toy.
In an hallucinated rain
of tears, sadness and rage
I ease the vicious pain
before hand it and turn the page.
I believe in runing to hope
as I retrieve sadism.
Don't want this to be a dope
like we enter the abism.
Looking down to us
I'm affraid we do harm
as we dig into our lust
for the key to puul the alarm.
Vasco Pompaelo*