Sometimes when you're sad
I can hear you sneak.
You return to what you had
and your peak is what you seek.

A tear slips, escapes and drips
on your wooden harp.
The pain is sharp and brown
like your eyebrows when you frown
even though you're wearing your fifth gown.

And you're back but lost.
You lost connection to what you were,
not who, because the change
was slightly saying that all
you did was playing to wash
away the loss.

The strings or lines could have been bars,
the accident caused wars
in your identity.

How you gently caress
each string
in your only dress
under his wing.

I've stopped working,
caring.
Failure is always lurking,
daring
what I never could.

My center, made of wood,
when burns
never returns.
You're left with ashes.

Your eyelashes,
your fingers,
all created lingers
and I never know for sure.

I guess that's how you lure
one man or another,
one of them being me,
as I see, you could be
the mother, bearing.

So I can revive caring
as an endless motion
in my wooden guts, my core.
You, bearing, three or four
as the door shuts
and you leave your instrument
behind.

My body feels clammy and I feel
my fingers, ears and nose kneel
before the king of snow and cold.
I envy those who have someone to hold
when days are less long,
and I am less strong,
less capable of defending,
when she is ending
sanity
for me.

Bashing the walls never saved her,
she never got out and I got used
to the screaming.

The room, opposite of frigid, steaming.
It abused insiders, visitors and people seeming
touched, by the history it carried.

It buries more than most can handle.
But a place does not feel pity,
you can not blame the city.

The pressure of a chance at being blind after
makes the ability of dreaming so
much dafter.

What has gotten in will hardly leave
whatever it is that you receive,
it will never suffice.

Does her smile cause yours
every wake moment. Once you fantasized
about the squeaking doors,
replaced.

I project to you a vision
once in your life, unique decision,
to make it happen.

I got you something for your
birthday, nothing much or
nothing fancy. Though I did
not dare to give it, because mid-

transporting something occurred
that, despite my former motivation,
formed some kind of hesitation
which strangely, harshly stirred

my view and vision on my goals.
I never notice what actually controls
a change of mind so out of the blue.
What could be this recurring cue?

It got through, I understand, I can
not hand because you want a man.

I dropped my ice cream cone today.
It made me realise that I stray.
Life is boring without the glue
that mends a feeling to all new.

A kid could scream a mother crazy.
But is it better than him being lazy?
And I should practice timing more,
being one of the few that I don't bore.

The drop of a can in a machine,
or of it on your phone's screen,
depresses on a different level
those who seek the purest revel.

In silence when the movie ends,
in the joy when that glue mends.