Before we do the love game,
And court each other in a dance.
I’d like to tell a few things,
About why I think I am not worth a chance…
I’m usually sad and quite depressed,
And I don’t do what I’m told.
I get too mad or just too sad,
I complain when I’m cold.
I get sick a lot, my burps aren’t soft,
You won’t ever see my floor.
My hairs a mess, my life’s in distress,
And usually I am quite a bore.
I talk too much, I eat your lunch,
I won’t share all my snacks.
I’ll hide some stuff and contemplate:
If what we have is getting rough?
I’ll monologue and talk the talk
And most likely will annoy.
I’ll ask for hugs, I’ll kiss too much,
Most likely pinch and cause sores.
I won’t hold back, even with your dad,
I’ll tell him all the bores.
I will pretend, I’m all upheld,
But really, I’m quite down low.
I won’t just stop, will be on top,
Until I need a hug.
I will kick in sleep, plus cry and weep,
You won’t ever hear an end.
But when you’re sad, I will put all of that,
To the side and just listen in.
I will be the one, who will just have fun,
Whenever you are ill.
I will make soup and cook your food,
Whenever you can’t stand still,
I will make sure, you’re loved and more,
Worshiped like a god.
I will change my plans, I’ll buy you pants,
I will always put you in socks!
I will never really, let you go,
Especially if you’re cold.
I’ll never stop, I will just laugh,
Whenever you will joke.
I’ll never say, I am all that great,
Unless you want me to.
I will make sure, you will dance and soar,
Until my last few days.
And when you’re sick or ill or ******
I will just hug you and say:
“You knew what was coming,
I told you I will annoy,
It’s not my fault you fell for this,
Now your soul is mine to adore.”
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 5:04 PM UTC
I got off the bus near the school I used to go to,
It’s dark and run-down walls, now made perfect,
Painted as a woman, right before a night out.
I put my hands in my large coat pockets,
Strutting through the school front courtyard,
Noticing the parents picking up their sunshine’s.
She stood there, in her worn-down clothes,
With large bags under her eyes,
Her one knee buckled, her one hand on her cane.
She stood there, waiting for her little boy.
He came running to her side, with his messy blond hair,
A large, compassionate smile, carrying the wonder of a child…
I saw them exchange their admiration,
Her hand cupping his chin, asking about his day,
Yet the boy only hugged her and frowned,
Keeping his heavy bag on his right shoulder,
Making him lean slightly to the right like the tower of Pisa…
The woman, her hand stroking the young boy’s cheek,
Looked worried and distressed, quickly muttering:
“Smile Henry…Why don’t you ever smile?”
And she smiled to show him how,
But it was the saddest smile he had ever seen…
He knew though. He knew how much that smile meant,
For that smile was the only reassurance that everything is alright,
That smile would make her forget her fears,
Her regrets and her failures, for that smile held her world…
He forced himself to smile, his muscles already aching,
As he tries to forget the bullies and narcissists.
They walked their way home, her movement slow and painful,
With every step she would let out a grunt and then a sigh,
Which let out all the weight from her lungs,
Only for her to breathe it back in as she stumbles.
She quickly reaches to his bag, taking it by the straps,
Smiling and throwing it on her shoulder.
The boy tries to say something, but she only smiles.
The boy knew though. Knew how much that meant to her.
For her to feel like she hadn’t abandoned him,
For her to feel needed and for her to validate herself.
And even though it pained him to see her like this,
He continued to smile and talk,
Just to forget that his world, is in her smile.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
I run barefoot right to your door,
The air so sweet, I gulp and gasp for more,
My heart filled with flowers of gold,
Tickling my lungs with butterflies so pure…
I jump and dance, over the ponds on your sidewalk,
Laugh and sing of feelings I had for a lifetime,
My head feels like it’s about to pop off,
Hoping to tell the three words I had learned…
You greet me with a smile and nod,
No feel of affection or closeness at all…
You say “Evenin’” and greet me inside,
I stand barefoot and flustered then let out a sigh.
I try to speak but you just lay on the couch,
Looking at the ceiling and having no doubt,
You know you won’t dance with me in the night,
Nor will ours hearts will be intertwined.
I still laugh and tell you my tale,
Of how I learned the three words and yelled:
“I love you!” Now silence was still,
Buzzing in my ears and you finally stand straight,
You smile and nod, formal and just,
You pat my back and give me a tug,
You lead me outside and wish a good night,
I never felt so cold in my life.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
In the great districts of my hometown,
Where large apartment buildings are our skyscrapers,
That touch the clouds and pierce into the heavens,
There stood an old grey building out of pebbles.
A relic of a terrible time, when bricks were a luxury,
And locks where made to keep us in and not the baddies out.
Outside of this building, stood a willow a tree.
It lived past centuries, saw the pebble fortresses built,
The cold pavement placed, the greyness setting in.
I remember swinging on its branches when I was little,
I saw it age right before my eyes, change its colors,
In the bleak districts of my hometown.
Below this world tree, I was safe.
Swinging on its branches as if Tarzan,
Putting spells into place as Merlin,
Slaying dragons like Prince Charming…
The branches of the willow became like pages of a book,
Each representing different fantasies and stories,
Building a world of its own…
Here I truly saw the sunlight in between the leaves,
Felt the cold morning breeze,
Saw the exchange of the seasons…
And with every single season passing by,
I grew older with the willow tree,
Just like my ancestors did,
How my mother and brother once did,
Swinging on the same branches and glaring at the same leaves,
Yet soon Tarzan was replaced with chemistry lines,
Merlin became a mathematician, getting involved in trigonometry,
While Prince Charming gave lessons in history.
Soon as the seasons passed,
I left the bleak districts of my hometown,
Setting foot into new apartment buildings,
Seeing new willow trees that just started to place their roots…
When I came back – the willow was no more.
Only a bit of its stump left in the ground,
Its old roots sticking out like momentous of history…
Ages worth of memories and fantasies,
The father and mother to many children,
The guardian and protector of the innocent…
Yet when I leaned down and ran my hands on the freshly cut stump,
Tracing the lines and reliving history itself – I smiled.
As for even in death, this willow tree, my willow tree,
Has taught me lessons, I don’t remember learning.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 5:21 AM UTC
As the mist settled in,
Covering the tall apartment buildings,
In a thick cloth of mystery and fear,
I wandered the streets, gazing towards the sky.
The few gleaming stars, guiding my path,
And I felt like Galileo, discovering something new,
Seeing something different than everyone else did.
My naked feet touching the cold pavements,
Shivering to the metallic and abandoned feeling,
Only stars and a slowly falling moon lighting my way…
My hand met yours, our fingers intertwined,
Sharing this moment together, still and yet ever-flowing…
One moment captured in time, still and pure,
Hanging about in my memory as I walk in the morning breeze,
The mist had now melted with the ground,
The moon replaced by the rising sun and the stars with clouds,
Forming shapes that no one truly appreciated.
I couldn’t feel the cold pavement anymore,
As shoes covered my feet, as if a wall between worlds,
No more stars to follow, only signs and walked paths…
I passed by you several times, but you didn’t notice.
Most likely starring at something else or maybe I wasn’t your special moment,
The moment that you cherished and remembered…
I walked such paths for hours, trying to linger somewhere,
Attach myself to someone or something,
Yet I am never anyone’s secret moment, no one’s stop in time,
No one looks at me like a child looks at the stars,
Nor will anyone feel happy like Galileo who wandered the heavens…
I continued to walk towards my destination,
Getting lost in the oceans of people that I could not navigate…
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 5:19 AM UTC
If I ever have a son,
I will insist on him calling me Plan B.
Knowing that if everything else fails,
He can always look to me.
And he will know,
That no matter what,
I will stand by his side,
With my hand on his shoulder,
Tightly holding him in place
And forever grounding him to earth.
I will paint the entire solar system on his hand,
So, he can always find his way back home.
And I will teach him that life will hit hard.
Life will punch you in the face,
Uppercut you in the jaw,
Not wait for you to stand up
Before kicking you in the stomach.
But getting the wind knocked out of you,
Is the only way for your lungs to understand
How much they like breathing.
I will teach my son to not build walls,
Not raise his fist in defiance to opportunity,
But to spread his arms and be ready,
Ready for the pain, the suffering,
All the misery that will fall into his arms,
Leaving blisters and agony on them
But with all that, he will catch beauty.
Beauty of the seasons,
Of leaves falling and twirling in the sunlight,
The beauty in laughter and smiles,
The understanding that all bad serves purpose,
It’s there for us to see the light.
The light that I will shine to him
So, he can always find the right thing to do.
If I ever have a son,
I will make sure that I am there,
When he realizes that superman isn’t coming,
I will make sure he knows,
That he doesn’t have to wear a cape by himself,
That no matter how far he stretches his fingers,
He won’t catch every single problem in his hands.
And that no matter what, I will wait for him to come home,
Having cookies and a raincoat ready for him,
Because there is nothing a cookie can’t solve.
And for those problems that he cannot solve with sweets,
I will put the raincoat on his shoulders and let the rain wash away,
The tears, the sadness and stress,
Leaving only the formations of clouds,
A rainbow and the glistening road to success.
If I ever have a son,
I will tell him what my ancestors taught me,
To be a rainbow in someone else’s cloud,
To shine and smile with all the heart he can muster.
And whenever he will raise his nose up in the air,
I will look at him and tell him clearly:
“I know that look, I know what you are smelling for,
Only smelling the smoke of a burning house,
That you will check and find those that lost their home to save them,
And if not that, you will find the person that caused the flame
And do everything you can to change them.”
I know he will do so anyway,
No matter what I tell him,
And I will only wait with blankets and chocolate.
I will tell him, my son,
“No baby. There are things,
That love, and words won’t heal nor mend,
Believe me I tried.”
But I know he will smile and continue as is,
Having the heart to carry on,
To soak in life to the fullest.
If I ever have a son,
He will be the star in starting over,
The wave in the ocean of life,
The sprinkle of sunshine on someone else’s cake.
If I ever have a son,
He will stand tall and proud,
Knowing that nothing is impossible,
That his mind and his will
Are the tools that he will use to climb
To climb the stumps, the hills and mountains,
He will reach for the skies and jump whenever he can,
Knowing that his story is his own.
If I have a son,
When the land will call to me,
And most will have forgotten my name,
He will place a hand on my shoulder,
Grip it tightly and tell me:
“Don’t worry father. I will always have your back.”
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC
Murderer
I am a liar, you know?
I lie constantly.
Every single word, though tasting of honey,
Is foul in its pure nature.
Even with the sweetest words,
I am repeatedly deceiving you.
I hate lying to friends.
But I fear of those friends,
Suddenly becoming acquittances
And I would be left to drift into nothing
Swallowed by my own mouth.
Hello! I’m a compulsive liar.
Yes. Compulsive to a point,
Where I shall lie not just for survival,
But for safety, comfort and joy.
But you won’t even know,
Mainly because I already started lying.
Even my hello is probably laced with something,
Poison that makes me cough up my heart,
Filling my lungs with words I regret.
But we are still friends!
And that is good. Even though…
I could be lying about that too.
Lies don’t even have beginnings or endings.
They are eternal and ever-flavourful!
Sitting in my stomach as if a parasite,
Dining on my ability to smile and not feel it,
Say things that I didn’t really mean it,
And yet. You don’t see it.
Maybe for the best!
Because if my mouth spilled the truth,
That I keep closed with my teeth,
You might think you didn’t know me.
The ME that never stopped lying,
With the fear to lose all.
It’s hard to lie about a ******
To commit such a foul crime,
On someone I knew best – myself.
But I cover it up well,
With few jokes about rainbows
And talks of girls and bars.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 4:07 PM UTC
Confession: I visited our pond.
The one where we met, with the lilies.
I picked one up and admired it close,
Holding it tightly to my chest, as if a bible
Over a smoldering flame
Knowing that if I let go
I admit that there is no God.
You picked one up before,
Showed me the soft petals
Laughed when I went to sniff it
But you only pushed it on my nose
And we laughed…at the pond.
You knew, back then, about water lilies.
You told me of different colors
Called them by their Latin names
Told stories that I believed
While holding a water lily.
You knew back then
That the tethered roots in the pond
Will break, and the lily will float away.
I put the lily back into the pond,
Knowing that I agree to defeat.
It floats, loosely and yet intertwined.
All alone.
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
I’ll miss every single morning, waking up facing my old, crumbling wall, where the grey wallpaper has come off the walls and you can see the zinc. I will miss reaching out with my finger towards a part of the wallpaper and pick at it. Not tear it off or make the wallpaper even more torn off – no. I would just pick at it and as if check if it’s still holding on to the old walls that I grew up in. In this room I spent half of my life. Why only half? Well in this room my brother spent his teenage years and only when he left the nest was I able to inhabit his room. I always wished to be in his room. Here I imagined myself building armies, plotting to take over kingdoms. This would be my castle, my guard, my home.
I’ll miss the summer’s breeze that washes over me when I sit near one of the country side houses, where the two sweet cheery-trees grow. The old bench that my grandfather built in his time – a very simplistic yet effective creation. Two simple planks, not taken care off and always parts of it splintering off, nailed down to two wood blocks of the old apple trees that we cut down. The bench, if one would even call it that, is not comfortable but I guess the sentimental value makes it pleasant and close to the heart. I remember sitting on that same bench and looking up to the sky, where the pure sky is covered in dark red, sweet cherries. The times when we would get out a ladder and start climbing to the tops of these trees and gather all the cherries into a bucket, then finally sit at home and enjoy the desert as a family. Those where the best moments of the summer. Alongside with the smell of freshly cut grass or the burning sensation of the hot wind brushing against your face.
I’ll miss walking past the dark forests to the river. I will miss slowly tumbling down the small hill towards the ground where moles have turned up and made the walk down even less enjoyable. Yet in the dark forests, where all sorts of creatures lived and made their homes, you would feel the closest to nature’s heart. On the walk there one would start to hear the sounds of the water trickling down the few hills. How much I will miss the river that I was born from. Not in a mystical way –no. There I spent most of my summers, especially when I was still little and I and my brother would go there for a swim after I had helped him do all the hard work. I remember him, sweating and barely catching his breath after manual labor and looking down at me, with such sincerity in his eyes and compassion in his movements. He would smile and slowly pick me up, place me on his shoulders and we would both walk towards our river. I knew he was tired yet my selfish side didn’t want to miss out on such special occasions when I felt so close to him.
I’ll miss the line of birch trees. I have a fascination with such trees, most likely because of their unique trunks that are covered in black and white spots as if the zebra of trees. I quite enjoy the fact that birches are the first ones to gain and lose their green leaves. I only think of spring and autumn whenever I look at these marvelous, tall trees. We had another one, one to the side, far away from the young ones. A fifty meter tall tree, reaching towards the sky, its stump thick and filled with ants and termites. We had to cut it down as it started leaning more and more towards the ground, most likely wishing to lay down and finally gain rest after enduring so many storms. Now, between the not so young birch trees there is my hammock. There I would lay whenever I had free time, whenever I wasn’t working and sweating while the either too cold or too hot breeze would make me jump. I will miss the sound of all the leaves wiggling about on the branches as a stronger wind passed them. I will miss seeing the yellow leaves fall off the trees and cover the ground and when few gusts of warm weather would hit, they would become dry and every time you step on them, they crackle and you smile.
I will miss getting back into my bed, where the same piece of torn wallpaper is and the same four corners that I left in the morning. I will miss, covering myself in the same duvet that I had for so many ears and looking up at the crumbling, white ceiling that I once hit with a ball and few pieces of it came falling down.
Then I would hear my father shout at my mother.
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 8:01 AM UTC
I’m so heavy, too heavy, still dragged on the floor.
My thoughts wriggling, sickening in my mind,
That I call the rotting corpse – decayed and rusted.
Every single cell, more disgusting than the next.
I want to wash away these sins, scrub myself clean.
Hot water? Holy water? I don’t feel the burn anymore.
Like a dead corpse, laying around naked and torn.
What choices can I make while lying dead on the floor?
Forgotten and old, my coffin already caving in on my soul…
Worms, sickening old worms, trying to collapse me for what I told,
But my Goliath was stronger and more righteous that others foretold,
As I lack David and the God that helped him turn the tides of war.
Corinthians said that bad company corrupts good souls,
Yet how can you know a good soul when you wounded yourself,
Beyond the understanding of life and death.
I shall forgive and forget, like Matthew once told,
Maybe then I shall grant rest for my rotting soul?
Repentance and penance – the pillars that shall hold me now.
Without faith, without God, it’s just me and my thought clouds.
Maybe a prayer? To those that shall listen,
Being right – is not easily forgiven.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 7:47 AM UTC