the taste of death over takes your mouth
everyday you wake and hope that this life is just a dream
day by day you learn to live but the dictator destroys all of your schemes
to live as a person in a horrible place
no matter how hard you try to learn to live in this gulag you call home
the guards try harder to put you down and make sure you always fail and stay home
only in my dreams i could imagine something as simple as a good bowl of soup
i feal that those simple little things i will never see again
but as an exile those simple things i can't have.
will i never have anything as my own?