Exercising in futility on purpose, just to see how
frustrating it feels.
Turning and twisting inside, not liking it very much,
feeling anger being triggered spontaneously without
being decided upon.
Rolling down windows of my mind, escaping from the
clotting of futility on my inner spirit, deciding
that futility wasn't something I wanted a part of in
life.
Wanting only a definite purpose to develop all senses
and intellect from.
Noticing that everything is much freer and calm that
way, feeling so much better and not being stressed to
the max like before.
Relaxing in measures of rhythm with a slackening in
pace, able to fall back and think alone in past moments
of thought again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem