I lay on the bedroom floor, looking at the sky.
The blue filled sky with dandelions and hope.

The white petals cover the sky, as the yellow pistil covers my room with its golden pollen.

The pollen shines through the paper thin curtains,
that take the form of a star.

Star silhouette that reminds me of the one above Bethlehem,
the Nordic star that was to guide people to its saviour.

It gets me to wonder.
Am I shouting loud enough?

Am I shouting loud enough
for the petals to wither away and make gray the new blue?

Loud enough for the star
that was supposed to guide me through the misty paths with muddy pits that drown adventurous,
to lower its rays so they are no longer able to cut the surroundings with guilt?

Every ray of pollen that hits the windows and grass,
cuts right thru the paper thin curtains which reveal the dirt and dust the room is left in.

No matter the effort.
No matter the hope.
No matter the screams.
The dirt stays there.
It stays right where it’s left.

Time moves, places stay.
The star formed pollen shines through the paper revealing all its secret.

Wishes and screams it held inside,
Now being poured out onto the wall
in shapes and figures that tell
decades of stories,
decades of history,
decades of dirt.

Suddenly everything falls silent. Everything except the stories the curtains hold.

They whisper and talk,
cry and whimper,
shout and beg.

Everything happens so quietly that it is impossible to notice,
so quietly that even a snail that carries its whole world
would make a bigger disturbance.

The only thing that reveals the tragic game of monopoly and irony of music,
is the paper thin curtains that keep shouting and begging,
but still overpowered by the world around.

She gazes at me, those stone-cold eyes,  
Piercing deep, where my heart pumps.  
That stare, a curse, of sweet deception,  
Binding my mind in desperate obsession.  

My eyes bleed salt, my knees start to quake,  
I plead for forgiveness for my audacity to stare.  
For gazing upon that divinely carved face,  
I pray for her eyes to let me leave.  

I push my fingers deep into my eyes,
casting a shadow over her devilish smile that keeps me bounded.
I dig them deeper into the skull,
I feel the past mistakes,
the green fields, and her.
It the only cure that slowly stops the ache of her hands,
deep inside my ribs.

Stretching out like a lion before a fight, dressing like Madonna before a flight.

The scene is filled with blurred out faces, using cigar filled spaces, with big fat snout that grin behind champagne cases. Using tux and hat to hide its hideous face.

The music starts, curtains drop, the dress is on, breath is held. The **** show is to start.

Stand up and start to spin.

Spin and twist like a quiz with questions of riches.
The growing snouts are getting greater as the ash trays are getting major.

The ace and break of broken pines and spine that been rearranged to fit the Madonnas dress.

The show must continue, continue to stand and twist and jump and smile like some sort of an idiot.

Stand at the tiptoes reaching for the gold above while the tips are dripping thru. The bleeding tips that keep painting the ceiling red are painting runes on the ceiling and floor like a sign for the sos.

The pigs are wheezing, the ash is in the air, the gold has fallen. Just the ash that builds up the throat, the only motivation that keeps the smile on and the floors glowing red. The curtain drops the wheezing stop. The floor is so close and the gold is so far. Bette luck next time is all I hear.

I lay on the floor, feeling the chore  
Of living creeping up through a poisonous door  
That leads to a future that’s already gone.  
Whatever have I done with my life,  
Except letting the dope flow down my dome?

Foam crawls from my mouth as the door rolls down,  
Pink elephants are drumming, parading wide open.  
Stars are shining as they are crying.
And the clock is ticking deeply down my aching mind.

The whole world spins, foam gushing out, the stars are begging and the clock is killing.
Shades of pink like cotton candy swirling about.

I pry open my veins, blue liquid drops  
Mixing with cotton candy as the drumming fades.  
Why do I twist and turn my veins inside out,  
Trying to fit them into the right place?

Sitting in the dark dark room,
in the corner of my mind,
in the corner of the room where the shadows loom.

The rivers of salty water flow down the river styx that guides me thru the end.
The boat is floating and flowing with screams of the unfortunate and unforgiving as the death rows thru the gates of the end.
But the end is never truly the end.

Shadow people twist their dark grins in forms that hurts,
the death is hanging over my shoulder whispering,
urging me to torment my broken mind until it falls and becomes theirs.

Theirs, theirs like a thing or a toy or like a match that isn’t destroyed.

From dust we come to dust we go, what’s the point of life, if we must die?