I am a minstrel
And I am singing my poem
That weeps of your tragedy
A doleful monody
A dirge that might as well be mine 

I am a painter
And I am painting your face
Such beautiful face
Such waste
Such grief
There is not much that I can do
about your lifeless stare 

I am a sculptor
And I am sculpting your soul
There is nothing I can do
about your misspent body
What beautiful body
What refuse
What absurdity 

I am your Sappho
I am your Raphael
I am your Michelangelo
But not much that I can do
to fill the void
in you blank, helpless stare
In your silent cry
In your slaughtered dreams 

You are my composition
You are my masterpiece
You are my monument
But not much that you can do
to console my artistic ruin 

My quill, my brush, my clay
Consumed by the pointlessness of being;
the cruelty of brevity
Weary of trying to please
and court immortality

Since last night’s conundrum involving that mysterious headache, everything just started to spin along with me — like I’m in a washing machine or something. And speaking of washing machine, maybe it’s what I need: a tough washing — you know, to remove the stains and the stench of my messy life. Plus a good dose of bleach, maybe I could pass for a new slate. If anyone could be that lucky.

This morning I awoke to chaos — loud and wild. My head, just recovered from that darned headache, started to whirl. I transformed into a massive boil with a gigantic eye due to shoot out of the pus at a careless blink. Everyone was on the brink of running amuck, including me, though I preferred to wear the chicken mask and stay as far from the war zone as I could for fear of getting hit by a stray bullet.

I didn’t have much sleep. My head is still in a fuzzy state. People around me are inclined to commit violence. I am in frenzy myself. This is one of those days.

Yeah. This, too, shall pass.

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