Something shall be done, hope lasted
For a few hours at least. Maybe I'll be
The next Chris Angel, and see
To it that I learn the trickiest illusions:
Cut myself in halves and quarts
To freak strangers' minds to parts.
Or I'll be a Picasso drawing visions
Into frescoes surviving world wars
That'd survive nukes and burning tars.
Cubes and boxes, shattered faces,
Smashed in with artistic maces.
Perhaps, ingenuity in computer arts
A next Jobs, billions off iDarts
Throwing them like enraged birds
At the consumerism pig herds.
A master chef? Do the Ramsey
And fire words spicier than kimchi,
While skillet sears up fragrant entrees
For modern kings in clubs du cabarets.
Starcraft bonjwa could be one too.
Be the next MKP or Polt, all-in you
Every game. So gosu that Huskies
Casts my MLG final victories.
God of martial arts, so fearsome fast.
Snap onto the bullet after the gunblast.
Jet Li fingers. Literal sonic speed fist.
Break your nose with a snap-wrist.
A dream on the summer. Time is free.
Time to finally become I dream to be.
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