Restaurant

Why did they send me this plate?
I didn't order it
I do not enjoy meat
And I don't even like this drink.

Such as a clock with no pointers
Life has always been a masochist
Providing me what I don't want
At the wrong time and place.

How can I manage a pen-bird
A fish-man, a cleaner-fly
Or anything else that doesn't make sense for the moment?
Like food when I'm not hungry
A kiss when I am begging to be alone
Loneliness when I wish for a hug.

Whenever I'm down, I write
That's why my words are rarely happy
I believe that's logical
When I'm ok, I smile
I do not write
I do not have name
And I don't want any masks for my face.

For all my life I've been living before the right time
(I go to bed at eleven-thirty
Not twelve)
Perhaps that's why I keep writing
Even without the right words
Or loving
Without anyone to love.