Mirror
is always the same,
only the faces
change.

No more chaos
in poetry
(and so in life).

New word order,
no more havoc,
no more lies.

Awful cough lasted nine days,
and he thought it will never go away.
But soon it went away
and he prays it will never come back.

Awful cough, which lasted nine long days
and nights. No, it wasn't the virus,
it was something else.
Something more suspicious,
something more frightening than that.
Something which can't be detected,
diagnosed, and cured.

Awful cough, it eventually went away,
but it scared him to his bones,
that's for sure.

I always struggle
when betraying myself.
Let alone betraying someone else.

Dead bodies
fertilize the soil.
They aren't useless
after all.

Sometimes I forget
that I will live forever,
and I care too much
about the smallest things.
I hold them tight,
I don't want to lose them,
to give away.
Sometimes I forget
that they are not mine.
I've only borrowed them
for a speck of time.

I get obsessed then
with my body,
I try to save it from decay.
But then this happy thought comes back:
it is not mine,
it will never be.
I've only borrowed it
for a minute. Or two.
For a short and disturbed sleep.

I exist and bloom
only for myself,
not for anyone else.

I am a flower,
and the garden,
I am the world.

I don't like people.
I am not here to make them feel nice.

I wish they never saw me.
They are my enemies,
they want me to
die.