Well I met her when the phones were just for calling
And I didn’t really mean to break her heart.
She didn’t ask for love, ‘cause it’d been stolen,
She took my hand and led me through the dark.

Her heart was made of gold while my was aching,
She had her chest all healed, but mine was breaking.

I said:
“Oh I wish I knew which way you have been going,
‘Cause everybody else, they look the same.
This old black heart of mine ain’t gonna stop it,
The voice in it been calling out your name”.

It feels I’m jumping right into cold
water,
And though I’ve jumped a hundred times before,
This one has made it feel a little
colder,
For me to come back faster to the
shore.

I said:
“Oh I wish I knew which way you have been going,
‘Cause everybody else, they look the same.
This old black heart of mine ain’t gonna stop it,
The voice in it been calling out your name”.

My father once told me to set reachable goals not imaginary ones,
But I set imaginary ones
Because I can’t get enough
And even if I could get enough I would
Still laugh at my father’s words
Because I choke and I stutter and
it seems like I shutter.
His words sound like butter that needs
to be melted

And I can’t help it.

I keep thinking that he was wrong,
so I go on
I set imaginary goals,
not reachable ones, not real ones,
Not those that sound-like-routine ones.
My father once told me that it’s too much,
It was in March,
the end of my school year.
I couldn’t hear the words he said afterwards.

They say that if you repeat something
over and over again, it’s becomes real
So I kept repeating that
nothing was wrong,
My vocal chords were jumping
out of my throat,
But nothing is wrong
Nothing is wrong
Nothing is wrong.

It sounds like a song. A still unwritten song, a soon to be written song.
I know that I belong somewhere else
but will I pass the test?
I press my face
Against disgrace my father placed
right in my chest.
I fill the void that I avoid and it is  
Sharper than the knife. I live a life,
But not the life.

And those goals, the real ones,
That sound-like-routine ones,
The reachable, not imaginary ones,
The ones that would make
My father proud,
They keep hunting me down.
They told me to repeat one thing over
And over and over again and I began
To scan

My own words that I say at least
A thousand times a day:
«Nothing is wrong,
Nothing is wrong,
Nothing is wrong»
I still go on with these imaginary ones
That sound-like-a-dream ones,
I holler and scream but my father
Doesn’t hear.
So I’m here:

I choke, I stutter and I really
do shutter. And his words are like
Butter that I spread on my bread
But I can’t eat it.

Am I defeated?

Or is it just my brain telling me
To stay strong?
My father once spoke to me,
But I went on
Because nothing is wrong.
Nothing is wrong.
Nothing is wrong.

You’ve come a long way.
Don’t rise up until you feel the strength
Rise in you.

You’ve given yourself to everybody around
Now you are on the ground,
So lay down.

Birds won’t fly until you stand,
Understand the need of living and giving
Believing and grieving,

Completing

Each task on your way.

It’s been a long one.
Let weakness capture you —
You are the one to fight for.

While you’re on the floor,
I will lie with you.
Until you are strong enough again

To gain every thing you’re worthy of.

I’m looking at all the things you’ve done:
The unexpected turns and awkward silence.
How will you know it’s time to run?
Don’t worry. I’ll turn on the sirens.

I can feel the ground burning beneath my feet.
I wish I could keep all the promises,
Predict every consequence.
The ground dances, glances at my eyes,
Fills them with water,
I wish I was bolder so that I could shoulder
Insanity, that feels a lot like vice.
An unfinished story fills the space —
Is that a phase in which I face all the glory
That one day may ruin me?
It is a clue I need to set me free,
Accidentally, it is right beneath my feet.
The burning ground. I’m stepping down
In fear of being overwhelmed,
I may prevent the ruinous and furious glance.
It stands with me from rhyme to rhyme.
It breaths and sets my feet aflame — it’s nothing but a childish game,
In which I’m destined to resign.

The ground burns, it’s right on time,
So that I whisper —

Make it rain.

There was this man. At the metro station.
He held his head up high
He looked at the sky,
Splitting it up into fractions.

He had bloodstains on his shirt.
He was sure that I wouldn’t see them.
But I saw them. And the more I looked,
The redder they got.

My God.

I didn’t know whose blood was this.
But it was fresh and red like roses,
Like a woman’s kiss on man’s lips.
There was this man. And his chaoses.

His hands were shaking. They were old,
Flawed, wrinkled. Pimples
On his forehead reminded me
That one day he was a boy

And all he had was dreams.
And bloodstains on his jeans:
He broke his knees
While trying to seize

The moment.

He owned it. Now his shoulders
Bend over. His shirt is just as old as he is.
And there are bloodstains, redder then
His cheeks.

So there he is. He sits at the metro station.
Wondering why the sky
The ******* sky
The blue-but-not-red sky
Is splitting up into fractions

And why his hands got redder.
He better
Still be a boy with dreams of joy.
But bloodstains are all

That matter.

We cannot tell — what lies in this?
We rise and fall straight to abyss.
The world is holding onto crutches,
While we are standing here and watching
The things we think we’ll never miss.

Unfinished stories hunt us down,
Like eyes of those who aren’t around.
Their voices bounce against the wall,
What do we do? Do we grow tall
Or simply wait till we are found?

The world is biting its own neck,
There’s nothing more to it than wreck
In aching souls of those who fight.
When we look up, we see the light —
So bright, it takes us all aback.

While we are numb, we capture this —
The world on crutches in abyss
And voices that keep coming through.
But we retreat — that’s what we do,
We don’t grow tall. We are dismissed.

The world is taking deadly aim —
It thinks that we won’t stay the same,
That we will tidy up the mess.
But we just stand before its eyes,
We hear it’s words right through it’s cries.
It says:

«I wonder what comes next».

What is the point of getting older?
Do you just shoulder pain, love,
words that haven’t been written yet?
Or do you get an ounce of regret
that brings you down?
You forget what you’ve done and think about what brought you to the brink.

Is this your brink? Or did you blink
To see a tiny glimpse of darkness?
Each year it’s growing bigger and bigger and words aren’t always coming out.
Neither is love.
But pain — it is always the same.
It feels like concrete if not worse,
Your fighting it, but in reverse.

Which means you’re fighting your own mind.

What stays behind apart from years?
Sundowns, sunsets, regrets or tears?
And fears. They hunt you down.
So what’s the point?
Is there one?

You’ve gone so far and yet you think
That everything is far behind you.
The things you’re missing when you blink
Do not define you.