You lie awake at night,
asking the same thing.
Is this right,
to feel everything?
The voices don’t cease,
as if they’re playing automatically.
It’s hard to feel bliss,
the voices saying, “Can’t you be kind to me?”
you tell yourself that it’s okay.
Is this where you should be?
To live helplessly everyday?
One voice whispered, “Hey, shouldn’t you be gone?”
You retorted, “Do you think so?”
And it replied, “Should I give you a reason?”
So you pondered, should you go?
The clock strikes half past one in the morning,
But you are restive as you lie.
You await for people’s awakening,
and look forward for midnight to die.
Until then, agony becomes your friend.
Death becomes your acquaintance.
Life becomes your enemy.
Yourself is what you pity —
Until midnight reaches its end.