feeling desperate,
captured in a box called room,
trapped on a bed,
with ties like needles on my wrists.

listening to radio drama,
my only self-fullfilment,
got my own drama,
my only way to rent this room.

the thing once called life is over somehow,
just a strife away to cancel this,
just a step away to bring out your death,
to bring out our death.

known as the turret-syndrom,
now what means that,
the turret clock that’s counting the last seconds,
the device who’s breaking off,
or just the counterbalance to the bullet who should end this?

it crawls like the sound when you’re knocking on wood,
it makes you smile when its all over,
feeling the shame in such an ironcially way,
feeling the shame after making unconsciously more foes…

the possibilities of the psychiatric intervention is exhausted,
but so I am.

a pacemaker for my brain,
but that’s just odd,
a hope in rates,
just say goodbye,
your last word,
the last “why?”,
the last failure,
my last wish,
the last seizure,
my last kiss.