When you get older
You stop being a hoarder
You focus on quality
And forget what society expects from you
Marry young and bear a child
So you think you should hide if you are different.

What a pity
To limit your activity.
The world doesn’t see
The treasure you could be.
Life is toxic so you’d better box it
And focus on your story.

Stop saying sorry.
Just find yourself and hope.
That’s the real dope.
And remember what matters
Forget all the mad hatters.
They are fake and make you step on the brake.

Because they don’t care.
Because they don’t dare.

When you feel dizzy ‘cause this life’s so busy,
Keep in mind that it will come to an end.
So don’t pretend or suspend your dreams
When you don’t fully apprehend.
Am I near the end?

My lines are not finished
Though my style is not polished
But who cares.
I’m the one who dares
To live and love, be strange and change.
For I have connected the dots
And I am alive against all odds.

Can I be your bird?
I will sit on your shoulder
And whisper in your ears
My secret songs
So that nobody else hears
The softness of the air
Dancing through your hair

I will sing with my sweetest voice
Hoping your choice falls on me
And you don’t run away
Leaving me flying in the nothingness

Can I be your bird?
I will sleep on your nightstand
My head tucked under my wing
At the spot, your alarm clock used to ring
I will sing a secret melody
Bringing you remedy
In an early morning

I will sing with my sweetest voice
Hoping your choice falls on me
And you don’t run away
Leaving me flying in the nothingness

Can I be your bird?
I will patiently wait for you to finish
Your dish and leave bread crumbs
On your napkin.
Just let it be!
A drop of water from your glass
Will bathe me

I will sing with my sweetest voice
Hoping your choice falls on me
And you don’t run away
Leaving me flying in the nothingness

Can I be your bird?
I will nest on your chest
Build a home above your heart
So when I depart
And fly away in the nothingness
Your soul will remember a song she heard
Of someone who’s never been your bird

There is a dollhouse in the middle of the bedroom.
It is pink.
The dolls are sitting in the kitchen.
They drink.
They sit in silence. They drink in silence.
No clink.

Their hair is long and blonde.
The makeup on their faces is too strong.
The conversation was dead
Even before it started
They just stare at the table –
The only thing that is stable.

They are gentle, petite and nice
Are they the candy for your eyes?
Every morning they put on their mask
Which makes them reliable
The scripture on their grave will read
‘Likeable’.

One of them is pregnant
There is a baby in her belly.
She can give birth anytime if you need
A programmed life is not a crime.
Indeed! We should celebrate her capability
Of making it easier for society.

There is a dollhouse in the bedroom.
It is pink.
The dolls are sitting in the kitchen.
They drink.
What’s in the tiny cups? Some tea.
Exactly the way it should be
Because ladies are modest
They never do their best
It can be intimidating
And might reduce their chances of dating.

And little girls follow. They obey.
Nobody tells them that they can disobey.
They are captives of their homes
And they don’t even know.
Of course. It’s part of the show.
This is how the world is constructed:
Women are the pillars and men construct it.

They hold the weight of the world
Without even noticing.
Their possibilities of moving aren’t promising.
Each direction is blocked:
If they come out from under their burden,
Fewer people will be bearing the same weight.
And boy! The world will see the hate!
Men would have to step in and take responsibility
But they don’t want to acknowledge how strong gravity is.

Earthly forces keep you on the ground
And you cannot move upwards
The invisible ceiling is pushing you back
Your feet sink in the soil under the pressure.
We are in it together.

We are in it together. In the dollhouse.
In the bedroom.
Our clothes are pink.
We sit in the kitchen
And drink.
We sit in silence.
We drink in silence.
No clink.
Our makeup is strong and we know
It’s wrong but nobody mentions there is a way out of conventions.
A man pours tea into our cups.
We don’t know any other beverage
Though its quality is below average.
We were raised on a potion
Brewed with patriarchal notion.

Rain is pouring down my skin
And I’m not moving.
Motionless.
I’m standing here notionless
And let the drops wash away my pain.
Dilute the poison.
Cleanse the pores.
Just that my soul could slowly creep back
Through the open doors.

My skin is prison walls
My body is the inmate.
It’s a one-woman jail
Nobody pays my bail.

There’s no way out
In vain do I shout. / I can’t even shout.
This lack of choice
Has muted my voice.

My mind is the prison guard
She is omnipresent.
Her presence is less than pleasant.

My feet don’t really complain
Even my arms follow my brain.
Barbed wires made of thoughts
Erase this inmate’s hopes.

I bought a silicone make-up sponge
To cover all the blemish
Patriarchy doesn’t cherish.
It’s fancy and squishy
The foundation’s quite wishy-washy.

Voices echoing in my head
Driving me mad
My ears have become deaf
The sounds of my soul avoid me

Far from this place
In the sea
They are riding the waves. Free.

My body ceased to be a home
Now they just roam
Alone. Flutter in the current
Faithful comrades. They weren’t

Far from this place
In the sea
They are riding the waves. Free.

A thousand fragments of my soul
That used to be whole
Until they took a stance
And embraced in a dance

Far from this place
In the sea
They are riding the waves. Free.

My skin became prison walls
Cold and rigid
Heavy teardrops making it livid
Wires tear my bruises open
Far from this place
In the sea
Broken pieces of me are free.

No other chance but to wean.
Sleep, eat, drink. Routine.
An empty shell. No cry.
That’s how life goes by.

But in a place far from me,
Amid the waves of the sea,
Uplifted by heavenly brace,
My spirit levitates in saving grace.