It seems like everything I touch is turned to ash, so I throw myself inside this book, traveling endlessly. Burning these pages with my passion, imprinting these lines with my envy, gluing these bindings with my failures, keeping a lock on what little success I've had. Gazing at my disgusting form, waiting for that flower to bloom. Such an indicted person, thrown away, such an ineffable form, locked inside my mind, provoking those that surround me, scorching my soul, endless denial of what I should and shouldn’t do. Existing in this distraught state, praying for the now mythical flower to show itself. To bear the ripe fruits that will erase the rotten mistakes. Pouring my heart in the form of lead onto the wilted rose of my mistakes, hypocritically hoping it would grow into a vibrant beauty.