I am searching for you but you do not exist.
I am searching for something with you which does not exist.
I have a theory I am working on about me. The problem is ME.
Maybe, they are not the problem if everyone complains of me.
If one hundred Frenchmen were not wrong, then maybe a thousand Englishmen are right: I am the source of all mayhem.
They opened pandora’s box when they conceived me, where was Family Planning when I needed help.
What is the purpose of life simply to take a breath?
What is the purpose for dreams and foreword planning when the universe has plans to reject it all?
Why did you create me simply to act as a thorn in everyone’s flesh?
Why am I the sad news on everyone’s tongue?
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