Dark thoughts and messages in my head are left not for sages to decipher and my ancestors to clarify. I, Sussana, am the sage of my dark thoughts. I am here in our hallway, I stared and groped in darkness if I would see my thought wandering.
Intuitively, I thought bad days were not for the bard, but my Dad created one today, tonight. I am neither mad nor my Dad bad.
Lately, I’ve been concealing the pot from breaking, but harsh words struck the pit and the liquid got spilled. Methinks I will fuel my pen with the liquid which is my streaming tears. My crimson eyes will sail the puddle of my tears and my lips will kiss and lick some salty yummy tears.
How I wish I wasn’t born, how I wish I lost the race. How I wish I died with my brothers in my Dad’s slimy water, but victory is mine — I won. Two wrongs cannot make a right they say, but I chose to be right and my Dad chose to be wrong. Still, he wants to prove his wrong right and my right wrong. How start I?
My Dad is just a rock that wants to bend me, rod; I think it’s impossible. Each day, he tries to blend me into his likeness. If vogue was meant for all folks, I am still a chick whose feet are not firm on the ground yet. But my Dad vogue is of vague, he’s even moving towards the cliff of vague.
His vague of vogue has set my feet on the track I know nothing about — me in me is not me anymore. I am living the life of my Dad and I know not when I’ll live mine. If I were to talk to my creator, I’ll just ask him a question, why was I born? I live my life daily in a hurdle to win. I have now come to a juncture where my living is a sin. If my living is a sin then, why is it that purgatory hasn’t commenced? One day will be one day when that day will be another day; I will be freed, but will I even be freer of my gloomy thought? How I wish I wasn’t born.