When Will I Stop?
How long can I last before I’m washed up?
When will I give up this joy in my life?
Will I quit in a year?
Will I write ‘til my end?
How many cycles of happiness and sadness will they embody?
Will they ever mature like the boy into a man?
Can they ever make a difference in somebody’s life?
Or will they always be merely a way to see inside of me?
Do they bear fortunes in my future?
Will I ever be appreciated as a poet?
Will I eventually find out that I have hundreds,
even thousands of admirers,
and didn’t even know it for so long?
The future of my escape,
of my expression,
of my falling depressions,
and of my rising delights
is ever so uncertain
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