Dear God, I’m down on my knees, confessing pieces of phrased thoughts hiding in the organ of my body on the upper part of my head. I have sinned, oh do please forgive me. I have sinned for lacing into someone by means of represented ideas, mindless objections and unuttered convictions.

There was a barracuda who questioned my ability with my previous writing matters I’d make as an entry for the publication. I admit, am not good. I’m burning my brows to the deepest of depth and gratitude just to please him which opposed his reaction. I admit also that I write candidly that only my reflection can understand those utterances I jot.

But how can I explain him that I’m only a newbie in this field though I’ve been connected with parallelism with regards of my father’s profession? How can I make him to understand that my skill shouldn’t be called itself for I only lay out whenever I’m in the mood or inspired to twist some vulnerable glib materials for them to be puzzled? That’s not a mere art but a matter of a heartbeat rather, that it just popped-in, transforming, and putting an end to my changeability then banishing like a bubble. My bank of words always falls in deficit and because of that, it didn’t cause any gratification since sometimes it exists, and sometimes it does not. When my sphere of buddies say that it’s gonna be fine, it always turned out into an asterisk way. I can’t even credit baksheesh for my own capability. My own broad piece of protective cover under the sky is noticeable where I can see the upper air always lightning seconded by a thunderous resonance that I can barely heal the wound of frightfulness. I keep asking a Libran for a hand on balancing the equality of my natural ability and the mammoth character inside me. It’s a sort of belief that I’m in the crust dwelling to be chewed-out by the hot-fired surface hindering me to go to the tempestuous orb. It’s like a war in the field that it’s too late for me to yield for I am already bounded with canyons and measles. I do not want to play tricks for I’m not good in luscious armor and I ugly am too bad with arch. All I percept is to cease this battle peacefully with no confusion. Thus, I am willing to be lamed by the sorcerer. I can learn tormented correctness from my mistakes through them.

And to make things clearly in an optical telescope, I can’t make these confessions yore. I spent my span from dawn to midday just to draw it near as combo as my life, crooning like cherub in the autumn season just to squeeze the ironies and metaphoric paradoxes, for it to be interesting for an omnivorous reader. These appealing lines juxtaposed neither to serve purpose nor to brag and wait for a complimentary segment. I am asking and extenuating as well an apology for my unbearable words. I am just trying to speechify my sword. Amen