There were times
her heart ached so
she thought
she's crumbling to pieces
like a broken glass
made of pain and despair

Falling through the darkness

She wanted to cry
but no tears ever came
Should one even try
to play a lost game?

She wanted to scream
but only whisper echoed
Worse than a bad dream
a pilgrim on a ******* road

There were times
when I heard his voice
in my dreams
calling me -
calling my name -
calling me home

but people told me
not to believe
the things
happening in dreams
and so I stayed

and home far away

It's in that woman's smile
It's in that child's laughter
It's in that man's gentle word
It's in that dog's jolly run
It's in that sound of beggar's accordion
It's in that street singer's voice
It's in that baby's sky blue eyes
It's in the touch of your hand
It's in the honest "thank you"
and in the sincere "please"

- that's where I find hope,
  that's where I find peace

I wish for him to smile
     so those handsome wrinkles will grace his face
     so his eyes would shine again - not bruised by pain
     so his lips would curve in that nice way
     so I know he's happy - at least for a second, please!

Cause every pain he feels - is my own disease...

I wanted to do what was right
to seek the sea for my vessel
alas - it's nowhere in sight!

I am a lighthouse in a desert.

Soul bounded by lust
prisoner in a red-hot cage
where every step burns
and there's no one to trust

How desperately you want
how pointless your battle
you're the fighter
you're the jailer
oh - what a taunt!

What a city!
What tales to tell!

A pizza boy crossing the street
impatient, tired features
clicking of heels on the stairs
their elbows touch
strangers from different worlds
intimate for a fleeting moment

Wailing of an ambulance
crashing with the seductive smell
from the corner coffeeshop

A girl flirting with the waiter
while round the block
at a divorce court
one fairy tale ends

Yesterday's newspaper
left on the bus seat
a homeless man in the park
humming quietly
the city has many faces

Raindrops on your office window -
is it a life what's happening out there?

To write poetry is to
tear your soul
in small pieces
and stick them down
on a piece of paper
in a wave
of overcoming power