Are you sure?
I've never really noticed.

You did a lot of huffing,
I did a lot of coughing.

I've never been sure of your intentions,
Were you looking to build me up from a faulty foundation?

Favoring straw over stone, cause you never really liked this settlement that much to begin with.

Your icy words did little to warm my tiny, dingy rooms, plummeting in my fireplace like soaked logs.

With the continuing weight,
I was forced further down.

Yet you had provided,
that was your thing.

For quality you had no regard,
It was all about quantity.

Money over love,
duty over kind words,
outer appearances over warm hearts.

You could have turned me into a mansion,
yet after all these years I remain a hut.

A shoddy and run-down hut.

Are you sure you're a father?

It won’t come back…
I’ve got the words,
real and unmistakably mine,
in angsty teenage-scrawling.
I’ve got the images, slightly damaged,
yet still pretty clear,
on my good ole’ meaningful moments-hard drive.
I even have the smells,
less pungent,
yet no lesser in meaning, since the days long gone.
But…it won’t come back.

I am still me, yet at the same time, I’m not.
And you…well: you’re still you, just…no longer to me.
It won’t come back…

Yet, I still have the power to put us together in this poetical pasture…
Artistic license, you know?
The old you and the old me,
together…

Only for a short while,
to make sure there's just enough time...
For you to take my hand and make me smile,
for you to make me believe in myself again.
God, it’s so warm in your presence...

All the while, I’m looking up to you,
In every sense of the word.

My awe is cut short by a dreaded goodbye.
It comes knocking way too soon…

I’m weeping internally and way beyond,
it turns colder...
You do your utmost to cheer me up,
grazing my arm one last time.

You disappear,
your impression plummets into my heart, my soul, my brain…
my all merging with my being.

   I disappear,
shrink down into the ground.
“Please come back, warm me with your smile, water me with your words,”
begs the wilting flower, that is supposed to be me.

But…you won’t come back,
and neither will I.
Our bond has come and gone,
as has my past.

“It won’t come back!”
echoes through my pasture.
A pasture contaminated with drought,
freezing and barren.

It won’t come back...

Resting calmly, on a bed of gliding green accupunture,
a limitless blue surface invites you to listen to its ouverture.

You wonder if there's more to the simple game,
played in that far-away frame,

more than a yellow ball surrounded by contenders white and grey.

You keep staring at the clouds,
pondering if they too are overrun with crowds.

Losing yourself completely,
in the miraculous spectacle never quite revealing its true way.

Life is a vitriolic vortex,
it's useless to be deceived by its beings' shiny wax.

All too soon that coating will smolder away,
revealing a  waterfall of bugs and decay.

It's only then that you'll realize,
that all your aspirations were just lies.

People you trust with your life,
see nothing in piercing your bent-over back with a knife.

You are truly alone in this no-man's land,
after everyone has refused to lend you a hand.

The only time to feel like you're not worthless,
surrounded by the downy duvet of darkness,
where dreams reign like diamonds.

As soon as dawn comes knocking,
those gems will turn uncut and need locking.

And when the time comes to get out your polish,
you feel the incoming threat of demolish.

Now you're down below,
trapped in a wooden box exempt from flow.

Suddenly...they care,
bring your resting place flowers to wear.

Once the bell has tolled,
and your skin is cold,
the sympathies unfold.

But the time has passed,
for niceties that last.

One giant globe,
millons of statues lined with withering wax,
life is a vitriolic vortex.

I wonder what's the use,
the use of joy,

when sadness prevails always.

Surrounded by a cheering crowd happiness puts on his skates,
confidently sliding onto a frozen ivory mirror.

"I've got this, I'm just gonna get to the other side, no biggie," rings through his euphoric brain.

All too soon an inky black slosh appears.

With time to avoid long gone by,
one of the blades gets stuck...
so does the other...

slowly the crack expands...
not much of happiness is visible now...

Until finally...

an abhorrent debacle,
When all happiness was going for was spectacle.

The crowd boos.

I've often wished I were a drop of dew,
joining forces with a single blade of lively grass.

Unaware of worries trying to tear my being apart,
or a conscience attempting to give my corrupted soul a wash.

Wouldn't it be a delight to be this small,
too minute to have room for troubles at all.

To be enchanting in simplicity,
yet ever ready to help a new dawn fight the black hue.

You can hear them outside,
the band of birds churning out a brand-new song.

The unmistakable scent of vivacious green soil,
structure not yet defiled by soles that wear.

The sky radiates a stunning blue,
somber clouds knowing they are in the wrong.

Trees rise up tall and mighty,
making you wonder why anyone would ever want to tear.

Spring revives all always.

I wade through seas never quite reaching across,
my back against the wall and counting my loss.

I keep on having faith,
that my luck will be great.

But all too soon reality appears,
once again confirming my fears.

I will never get the best,
I just have to be happy coming last.

Such is my existence,
briefly soaring through the sky then meeting resistance.