Paul Dec 7

I hear a crow, sending it's please,
The winter has come, the time is to flee.
Cold mothers hands, will rip off its wings,
Life must now hide under a layer of Winters skin.

I remember the warmth of Summers embrace,
The smell and the feeling, the Spring would place.
The beauty of clor, the sympthony of trees,
The howling of Autum as it regretfully leaves.

Now like that crow, I sit in the snow.
So open, so cold, I've forgotten my home.
My wings - frozen shut, feathers stripped away,
Waiting for another cold mothers embrace.

As everything becomes cold and white, momments where I could just sit back and relax become more and more rare.
Paul Dec 3

Dorothy once said:
“There’s no place like home!”
Where family waits, where we don’t feel alone.
Maybe she’s right,
On the subject at hand,
Yet I feel out of touch, too naïve too understand.
I remember the monsters,
Under my bed.
No comfort, protection, bad ideas in my head.
My guardian angel,
Cold and upset.
She now nods to the one, who carries my regrets.
No tornado, no monkeys,
No witches with brooms.
It’s just me in my home, dining with the king that rules.

We say that we can't pick family, but must family be only decided by blood?
Paul Oct 28
You

You.
I tripped over.
You.
I felt in my heart.
You.
I started to love.
You.
Made me complete.
You.
Made things stop bleed.
You.
Made me jump over walls.
You.
Pushed mountains to make things stop.

Now time passed and everything changed,
The distance, the difference the things in my brain.
They changed both of us, after one year together.

You.
Are the person, I won’t get over in forever.

"Watch how a cold broken teen, Will desperately lean upon a superglued human of proof" - doodie in her song "Sick of Losing Soulmates". Glad I found my soulmate. Also, I say soulmate as in good friend, still looking for theo ther kind of soulmate :P
Paul Oct 26

I have no words, words that could change…
How life works for us or mistakes that we make…
We don’t really fit, in everyday human life,
We are but people, standing by the road signs.
We have no clear path or a destination to reach,
We try our hardest, just to get some kind of appeal.
The lackeys, the misfits, the weird looking ones,
The special, the crazy, the one’s that always give up:
We won’t stop loving, moving ahead,
We can’t change anything, but we will try our best.
We won’t always be happy, but we know how to cheer,
For all of the misfits, that we find out there.

Sometimes I just feel completely useless, It feels like I live horribly just because I love too much.
Paul Oct 10

I remember being five,
Just learned how to read.
I barely got words right
But it kept my mom happy.

I didn’t like books,
They were scary to me.
But then I picked this one up,
From a shelf that was dusty.

And old leather cover,
Torn and abused.
This book was through war,
Through many boxes that moved.

I felt like Indiana Jones,
Discovering something new.
This book was so foreign,
Yet so close to my home.

I opened it up, peered at what’s inside,
Old pages, faded colors, letters that sighed.
I started reading the stories,
Escaping to worlds.

Where witches ate children,
Two brothers hunted for trolls.
There were turtles racing,
Foxes that schemed.

Big castles with princes,
Towers with wizards inside.
A genie, a prophet,
A tyrant to rule the land.

I was lost in those pages,
In the many worlds of dismay,
So colorful, so heavenly,
I think I shall open it today…

Paul Oct 9

I don’t write for justice,
Or to say what’s right and wrong.
I write to escape the greyness,
That I feel in my world.

I write about my feelings,
About the depths of my mind.
I write to make you see,
What I feel, for you to understand.

I write to escape, to see skies,
Blue as a river on a summers day.
I write to see dragons and pixies,
The big bad wolf hunt his prey.

I want to see the high elves,
The dwarves of misty tops.
To see wizards and witches,
Fight for what’s good in the world.

Maybe you don’t see it,
But that’s what I do.
Write crazy stories, poems,
And complaints about personal issues.

Paul Aug 25

I sat in the closest park to my shitty neighborhood,
It had few benches, some grass and I think roses too…
It was fairly boring really, close to the road…
It had few ducks in the pond that stopped to grow…
People said it was so beautiful, so full of life,
I only saw the dying of any kind of light.
I remember once, I saw a couple there,
They were old, ancient, yet they sat there…
On an old rusty bench that started to smell,
They sat there, told each other of times they shared.
When their skin was not dry and the lights hadn’t died,
When the trees were just blooming and the ducks still grooming.
When their hears were still young and barely touched,
That’s when they said of how much they loved.
I smiled at them, knowing I was once again wrong.
The park wasn’t that terrible as I have told.

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