Dead man keeps following me
and asking for a spare life.
I wish I had one for myself.
That would be lot of fun.

Dead man keeps following me
and asking for a spare life.
He looks a bit disappointed,
he knows he stalks the wrong guy.

I overheard this whisper,
this gentle, peaceful chat:
Look, happiness is easy,
it's them, who make it hard.

The architects
of their own
demise.

Full time poets
don't exist.
In this world
at least.

There is plenty of them
on the other side.
It’s only for us
it seems that they have died.

Yellow leaves
falling
from the trees.

The quiet river
isn't calling my name -
it's calling me.

Death
is trying to be fair
at least.

When you're a poet,
every Hello is a Goodbye.

When you are a poet,
every day is the last day
of your life.