The written pages of novels. Bring me dyslexia.
The silence of words. Haunt me.
Some unwritten piece. Want me.
Smile hates me. Hate smiles at me.
What if I unplug in oblivion? Who will rear my words?
My babies they are. I cry when they get hurt.
But the flute of death is already playing on me.
The words inside me are playing it.
I am in a white hole. I can see that black hole.
I am that ill. That I want to sleep.