For the eight time this year,
Where were you again?
Enough with the same excuse.
Its overrated, its overused.
Those eight days you were missing.
I had this weird feeling.
That its not just some cold
That there are more stories to be told.
I could feel the breath of sadness
Under that deep tone of your voice,
Whenever your speeches,
echoed around these four corners.
We may belong to a different era.
And differ in what we know and do.
Yet, I could read you like the story
Of ozamu dazai's misery.
Those eight days, were you hunting,
For a place of peaceful resting?
I hope your lady knew you need it.
I hope she helped you find it.
Frankly, I never liked nor disliked you.
I just don't feel you were true.
But it is clear to my view.
You also have this midnight dreary.
I feel like the antihero of your story.
The one doubting your teaching efforts
Whenever you're present in class.
But now I have no reason to put forth.
I guess now, its pointless to say
that you are going the wrong way.
And forgot your teaching duties.
I guess you deserve a break from these.
