You can read.

Thumbs on eye-lids.
Index-fingers on forehead.
Each hand trying to pluck out the skin off the skull.

Tuck!
The puzzle is back in its bony pieces.

I meet my adversary.

Because I won't let your pain break my pattern.
Because I won't let your paints smear my picture.
Because I won't let your predictions fuck with my plot.

Because I wouldn't let twenty one years of design go drown in your waters.

I would hate you.

Till my darkness shoot out at you, like the most powerful missiles on earth, all together.
And Boom!
The burnt bits left of what was once you, would crawl back together and crowd at my feet.

Let me laugh like mad.
Let me go.

I have set a destination for my destiny.
You can read the log-book of my journey.
You can't write there.