You asked me why I write these words
Well I can tell you one thing
I don't write for you
Or the strangers that will read them
I write to clear my mind
Get rid of all my thoughts
To dislodge those memories
I have constantly fought
I write to express what I feel
In a calm and collected way
To wipe my slate clean
And erase my bad days
I write to run
To escape
From a world I am sick of
And all the pressures of the day
So no, I don't write for you
Or for the strangers out there
I write for myself
So I don't have to care

I'd die for you.
You would'nt even fight for me.
I'd cry for you.
You wouln't even lie for me.
I'd catch a bullet for you.
You would still be living life free.
I'd lay awake all night for you.
You wouldnt even dream of me.
I never gave up on you.
You gave up on me....

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

drop.
the morphine finally reaches her weak body through the long tube
drop.
the morphine enters the vein and sets off for a journey in her aching body
drop.
the morphine spreads and rushes with her pale blood to the remotest parts
drop.

from the tips of her toes, the relief wipes her body and her soul
she drops my hand and she closes her eyes
she doesn't need me, she doesn't need her heart
her brain is just an *****, hiding there in the skull

what she needs now is her spirit, that is percolating through the white plastic hospital-matress
it is flowing away as a river, escaping from the pain
she turns inside-out, she sinks in herself
in colours, in pleasures, in eternity, in unexplored daffodil-fields, in heavens and hells

the dripping stops, I can see it
the morphine has evaporated, she can feel it
her spirit crawls back into her damaged body
connects the brain to the heart, gets the system ready

back to reality with open eyelids
welcome back again pain, at least you were killed for a while
but the core of the disease is still in her belly
she needs more morphine, more dreams, more of eternity

drop.

Every morning
I see her get up
She turns on the light
And opens her heart

Remains of her dreams
Dance or her forehead
The sun comes up smiling
When she's combing her hair

I love those gentle moves
As she puts on her make-up
A flower in blossom
In small marble footsteps

She is my angel
My conscience, my wall
The velvet voice inside me
My guard and my soul

I see her wings
As she steps out the door...
But now she is leaving
Without me, alone -