You always want to die,
You have many skull tattoos.
You listen to loud music,
You write poems
Like a deaf woman sings.

All your clothes are black,
"Black as my soul" you say,
You hate yourself so much,
You make it known each day.

You always want to die,
And cry that he's your saint,
But you don't call death with kisses,
It's clear to him, it seems,
How much you want to wait.

And now here is my secret,
a very simple secret:

It is only with the heart
that one can see rightly;
what is essential is
invisible to the eyes.

she's young, she said,
but look at me,
I have pretty ankles,
and look at my wrists, I have pretty
wrists
o my god,
I thought it was all working,
and now it's her again,
every time she phones you go crazy,
you told me it was over
you told me it was finished,
listen, I've lived long enough to become a
good woman,
why do you need a bad woman?
you need to be tortured, don't you?
you think life is rotten if somebody treats you
rotten it all fits,
doesn't it?
tell me, is that it? do you want to be treated like a
*******?
and my son, my son was going to meet you.
I told my son
and I dropped all my lovers.
I stood up in a cafe and screamed
I'M IN LOVE,
and now you've made a fool of me. . .
I'm sorry, I said, I'm really sorry.
hold me, she said, will you please hold me?
I've never been in one of these things before, I said,
these triangles. . .
she got up and lit a cigarette, she was trembling all
over.she paced up and down,wild and crazy.she had
a small body.her arms were thin,very thin and when
she screamed and started beating me I held her
wrists and then I got it through the eyes:hatred,
centuries deep and true.I was wrong and graceless and
sick.all the things I had learned had been wasted.
there was no creature living as foul as I
and all my poems were
false.

Her halos are created in silence
By his dark secrets and his dark passions
And in his chaos of thunder storms
She stands still
Like a fallen autumn leaf
In the cold waves and gusts of winds.

15.43
02.11.17

They say that the time never stops
But didn’t they tell you that I can even stop drops?
It’s me, the photograph, who’ll hold you
Till the time it gets better, even if the time flew
People say that I’m just a copy, just an ‘it’
But I’m capable of holding moments, making everything lit
I’ll make you remember those spring birds
I’ll make you cherish flowers of what you’ve heard
I’ll make you cry by those gestures so small
I’ll make you wonder by those abstracts you call
And I’ll make you feel a thing called love
And a thing called memory
And a thing called home
Cause it’s me, the photograph, who’ll hold you
Till the time it gets better, even if the time flew

18 Jan. 17
21:57

“The sad thing is,”*
          she said,
    *“the moment you start to miss someone, it means they’re already gone.”