Farver af liv har ødelagt mig
Jeg sidder midt i natten
Søger kærlighed,
og betaler i naivitet
Intet er som før
Det eneste tilbage er evigheden
Den evige længsel
Cigaretterne,
syntetiske
Som din kærlighed,
uægte
Men du elsker mig og jeg elsker dig,

syntetisk

*f.b

Pasta

They ask, “what is poetry?”
I’d give them a bowl of spaghetti.
Naturally they’re taken aback.
No surprise about that

Still I’d tell them,

“Here, take a bowl of my tiny soul.
If you look into it well enough
You would know that it’s not just a mush of twenty-six alphabets
See, I took the sticky dough that composes my mind
And shoved it through the tiny holes I call standards
And carefully pulled out the strands of words.

I’d tell them,

“Then I would pour the red sauce, my personal favorite,
That I cooked up with my blood and tears.
If you taste them correctly, a voice will sneak into your minds
And speak their reality.
Although it may hurt, that way you will see.
That’s my poetry.”

I would tell them, but I think they weren’t listening because
They would just drink up the whole thing like hungry savages.
And I would quietly stand there in awe
Because they wouldn’t understand.

Have you ever sat and realized
that birds sing for themselves
that trees werent made for paper
that you werent made for me?

Have you ever sat and asked yourself
how many times have you cried
how many times have you laughed
how many times have you fallen in love

Have you ever sat and sobbed
about her
about you
about me

Have you ever let the wind take your hair
without pulling it back behind your ear?
I believe your hair is pretty when it's free

I think for a moment, it belongs to
the world
to the birds
to the sand
to the waters
and to me.

You may have died young,
        but as long as
        my words live,

*You will never grow old.