My hand aches from writing so,
Your demands have over taxed its beauty,
The creation it generates.
That flows from the tool to paper.
Though it burns to write,
I feel nothing.
For what has been done has passed.
I have nothing left to do,
The long cylindrical tablets
Doth bring calm.
For me at least.
You damned hypocrite!
Burn thyself with flames from Hell.
So that I might live freely,
So that I can enjoy what freedom is.