Texty: Incoming Cerebral Overdrive. Wait.

I must build up with my ambitions
what I miss around, waiting and quaking,
with the sweet torment of wait,
so unpitying and wearing.
I cannot know how and if
the moment will come,
which will change the quiver
of depression or evolution.
To leave and to be content,
living time has not certain,
or to undergo and to sweat,
thinking the wait will evolve
and I won?t depress, and I hope time won?t betray.
Many different sensations alternate (succeed each other)
let oscillate the humour and the expectations.
I am sitting to wait and I begin to brake.
Failure would be the certainty of uselessness
of my sweat that like a thorn in throat
lets me remember its presence,
but lets me remember that also I am an animal
and if I want to live I must fight or escape.
And in any case I am forced to die.