She used to be happy
An innocent angel once
Always been deceived

Sick of being miserable
Poison spread in her heart
She screamed for help
Did anyone care?

Surrounded by cruel monsters
Dead compassion around
Betrayals and disappointments

"Why? tell me.. why does it have to be like this", she cried

Shame on herself
Run.. run, run far away
Storms and hurricanes along the way
Lightning and loud thunder
The girl was afraid.. lost

Scared, angry and weeping
Broken dreams and wishes
Drowning in the deep sea
Locked in a missing door
Where are they now?
Everything has faded
It will never be seen again

She finds herself nowhere
Misguided by pain
An odd path was seen
Light slowly vanishes
In the cold dark side..
A place she'd rather be
Curled in a ball, frustrated

"I'm worthless..", she said
Awfully accusing the mirror
Asking herself repeatedly

Black roses holding her
Torn that made her numb
Still she's hiding at ease
Needing to forget reality
Hopelessly still wondering
Lonely, frightened, tears falling

"I'm better off alone", she whispered

She closed her eyes.. sadly
Tired from all the suffering
There.. the girl sleeps peacefully..
Never want to see light again
Fooling her soul in dreams.. *eternally

What does silence feel like?
Silence feels like waiting at a train station at 3:00am.

What does silence look like?
Silence looks like seeing your dad walk out the door again.

What does silence taste like?
Silence tastes like cold leftovers from the night before.

But worst of all
Silence is seeing someone you love, with someone else.

I'm not the poet who uses sophisticated language
I'm not the kid my parents would be proud of
I'm not the student the teacher praises
I'm not the friend who people turn to

I'm not anyone's best friend
I'm not anyone's favorite
I'm not anyone's first choice
I'm not even my own believer

I want to fix my life
Yet I want to end it
I want to be better
Yet I'm tired of trying

What is wrong with me?

If my life were a recipe
I feel like every ingredient would be followed
by the word "optional".

8 hours of sleep (optional)
Two to three meals a day (optional)
1 social life (optional)
1 job (optional)
A handful of friends (optional)
A pinch of creativity (optional)
One cup of laughter (optional)
Three heaped tablespoons of positivity (optional)

You get the idea.

But you're different.
You're the one ingredient I can't do without.
You're the one thing that matters
when I can't be bothered with the rest of it.
When all the chopping and sautéing and boiling
and grilling of everyday life
seems like too much hassle,
there's always enough time for you.
You're my quick-fix meal on a weekday evening.
You're a mid-morning snack
snatched between errands.
A quiet evening in on a Saturday
with a bottle of wine and Joni Mitchell playing
"I could drink a case of you".
I could cook you every night.
You're comfort food at its finest
unpretentious, convenient.
Never bland and never tiresome.
You're the one ingredient I'll always have in stock,
that one I'll never let myself run out of.
Because you cannot be substituted.
You, and only you, are not optional.

I’ve written on a flyleaf: I hate you, mon amour
with hard working passion I hate you.
Ceci n’est pas une pipe, your father have told you.

you’ve been so busy to cut the day off from the night
-quite an old fashion-
and just when the silence evacuates  its void to be the great pretender
perhaps Magritte had dreams about annihilation to compensate a ******
but I was dreaming of you sleeping with lions

I’ve felt your cage – the splitting of now and then into so many suspicions –
unbearable waking hour -  I wake up in the dark and I can see that I love you

when the hour gently subsides to the moon
and I can find no comfort in haunting memories
I pray to the air to touch my lips with your gaze

You-the night-the day
she-the day-the night,
or just the fair pulse
somewhere in the air the hollow howl

She feels it in her bones. Yes. She feels
whatever shall be: a blinding ambiguity
The morning recycles dreams.
laundry crushed on the river stones
women are crying and washing
Oh, she wishes to air the night of your body,
to pull you out of your death.

The shadowy flowing of now
pierces her eyelids with your cellophane smile
her cells rustling: you-you-you
even screaming like a yo-yo
to be heard backwards
till the Big Bang

the silver teeth of desire tear the night
till his eyeballs turn into rainbows
he is searching for a tender eye
to be born out of.

when she touches him
miraculously (only in dreams)
with soft trembling fingers
the wonder explodes in vertigoes under his skin
the bones are crystal sonorous
the night just forgets its name -
his body is throbbing a litany
of unknown shapes.

when she touches him
something so natural happens:
he becomes a fish,
a tiger, an eagle,
a missing fossil,
a submarine volcano.
searching his boundaries
he curses his dying hour,
the pain of letting go,
the violent pursuit of a name.

her fingers
charmed with dawn-like dreams
draw the shape of his body into the air.
when she touches him with silence
he would die a thousand deaths
only to be born one time
out of her hands
enchanted.

A blossoming intensity
Invisibilium
One day I’ve felt: to be who you are

the urgency of feeling alive
the quietness of the waving at the end of the road
That’s how it is: I am who I am
An intense inexplicable tautology
or  a certain taste in my mouth,
a lazy hand on the morning pillow.
the salt of the earth in my tears, so many, uncountable
young staring in the mirror- to have someone to watch my scorching sorrow
the conundrum of why to keep dreaming

iridescence of silence in my gaze,  unpredictable tones

To be, to keep it simple.
the elements and their transmutation cannot explain it:
each and every antientropic pulsation
the eyes of fire see through me
I am unrecognizable inside out
Cause I am you and you and him.

Why hiding your fears in an unchewed No
Or sparkling your eyes just one liquid moment?
We are already tired before we begin.

En passant I have to tell you about the glue
That is cast upon our hips
scattered images in fugitive dreams
us at the same table
me waving good bye
perfume on your hands
but not enough laughter
to open some space in time

It’s noon and I miss you