I’ve been knocked out to the lowest ground.
And I’ve also learned how to get up a thousand times.

But I grew tired.

There is only one wish that keeps running around my head,
“I wish I am still young and bold.”
But I’m not young anymore. And I’m not bold.
I’m only smithereens of what I was.
I’m as heavy as the mountain
I carry on my shoulders wherever I go.
I curse the time.
I curse Bukowski’s poetry.
I wish I am still young.
I wish I’m still bold.

I wish I still have you.