By-Two Kaapi in an oilfield

Three cups of coffee.
Adequate tar content inhaled into the lungs.
A constipated day

The head feels like it would crack like some alien abdomen and ooze out some gooey-red paste.
The eyes droop, as if the only thing that can keep them awake is some mechanical eyelids-opener.
The fingers move as if they were the only remaining bread-earners for a sick, abandoned family.

Surfing through blog archives makes me laugh in contempt and cry at fate.
That folder of music called 'Romantica' on my disc makes me puke.
It is The End, beautiful friend, The End - are the only lines that make sense.

Coffee no longer gives me a kick.
A fag can't give me a high.
Music is the only thing that still hasn't lost its potence.

That urge to lead, the hunger for fame is long gone.
And I'll never look into your eyes, again - said Jim.
I saw those eyes - a faint glitter, a remote tear remained.

Insomnia : wake up at 3 in the night to watch a movie.
Watch the sun rise as I wear the inside out and then try sleep.
Wake up as I hear the words over the cellphone in a nightmare.

I got the hint.
I learnt what I had to learn.
Didn't I know?- It was never meant to be.

Three more weeks to cram 50 wordlists.
Careers and paychecks driving into the desert.
The thought of losing out to mediocrity drains the energy.

A fucking loss.
A big fucking game ahead.
But it's the same ol' fucking me - yeah, with a couple of stab wounds.