I should feel something, but for some reason, I can't feel a
thing.
For the first time in 28 years.

The hand that wrote so much has stoped from feeling the
moving pen, and yet, it is craving for more...

These eyes that have seen so much evil and fearless cruelty
in this life time has grown old from fear.
of yet to come...

This heart of mine has given up all hope of ever finding a
quiet place of its own.
A home. A sign on a door.

How many Tears must I shed upon these empty lines?
How many more untill m-y time will come?

Why can I touch everyone but no-one can touch me?
Why is it that your pain is more visible than mine?
I guess it is so cold out here you just can't feel the
wormth my dying heart is sending you...

27 has passed, with its memories.
So many years of never knowing what it's all about.

Transparent people, empty houses and busy streets,
cars birthdays and shuttered childhood happiness and
dreams...

I guess it's here to stay now.
I guess it's here for good.

At 28, the words are powerfull.
At 28, you're already deaf.
And at 28,
I won't be 29.