Have you ever made a cup of tea on a lazy afternoon,
sipping it and getting lighter almost like an air balloon?
Have your cold hand ever searched for another hand like for a glove?
Have you ever needed a shelter? Have you ever been in love?

Have you ever cried when Spring came and touched a death man's face,
and he opened his dead eyes, and the flowers grew from them?
Have you ever seen a seagull circling skies the sea above?
Have you ever watched a sunset? Have you ever been in love?

Have you ever crossed a river, knowing there is no return
to the places you have graced with your doubtful confidence?
Have you ever found the answer, when the steel push came to shove?
Have you ever thought you were nothing? Have you ever been in love?

Is there something you remember that keeps you awake at night?
Who is to blame for these tears? Maybe you just care  too much?
Is there someone you are missing, even if they are with you?
Oh, I know this awful feeling. I am missing someone too.

Falling,
falling has never been easier
than now.

Falling,
falling has never been more pleasing
than in this very moment of time.

Leaving
everything and everyone behind.
Getting rid of
this heavy burden of eyes.

The waves
crashing into rocks, I will let them die.

Falling,
falling has never been easier
than  now.

Rain, rain, rain and more rain,
my prayers were all in vain.
Maybe gods drink too much wine,
which then turns into water,
and then we curse the wet weather.
Some kind of anti-miracle.
It will never get hotter.

In a mirror, we always look older
and we believe that it lies.
We blame it for every wrinkle:
Okay then, you lie, but why?!

How rude of mirror to do so,
like literally in the face!?
We give it so much attention
and what in return? Disgrace!

Or perhaps we do look older
indeed, and it doesn't lie.
Perhaps we lie to ourselves
and maybe we know well why.

I have tried to quit writing
many times,
but I couldn't.
Even if I could,
I wouldn't.

I have been writing
since I was twelve.
Asking me to stop
is like asking me
to **** myself.

Rivers run,
and I let them take me with them
to the ocean. 

 Poets write,
and I follow their thoughts,
for they know the way out of the darkness.

Flowers bloom,
and I sigh along, escaping for a second
 the cold hands of death.

The stars shine; they offer their light as a warm shelter
for my frightened eyes. 

Painters paint, and my invisible hands are holding 
an invisible chisel.
Only the colours can tell our
stories.

Birds fly,
and I am holding on to their
feathers; they lose them sometimes, but never on purpose. 
 
Death takes,
and I don't try to stop her from taking,
for she turns back the hands of time. And it means
my salvation.

Luxury
is something your life
would be miserable without.