The rugose skin has helped me see better.
And every time, as now, I close my eyes,
The dreams become less vivid of your tender,
And I can see behind those sweet old lies.

The music gets me going; I wonder where it leads.
I still keep those **** letters up my sleeve,
And notes that kept me warm are burnt by your own words.
They don't tell any stories anymore.

Salient pace, turned to a race,
Keeps me moving still and in time.
I invented a machine that would make me old and real;
You, I left as young and past behind.

Someday, I'll sit by the river
Where all the promises were made.
And as I close my eyes, I won't make a sound,
Because there won’t be a flicker
Of my thoughts trailing away
To the day I said "I want you" in reply.

It is so boring yet alluring,
So strong and weak in just a nick of time,
To drive all night without hesitation,
To come back in the morning with a broken spine.
To switch the role of a conqueror to victim,
And juggle stories to make up a perfect line.
In retrospect, come up with better answers,
To realize it's all a waste of time.
It is a moment of complete misunderstanding,
To fill the cranium with what is wiser to be off.
There is an end that points to the beginning of a new axis,
It turns upwards, completing the dimension of a cartboard box.

It is not gullible as paper, still able to be molded and reshaped.
One day a hopeless sufferer surrenders
And talks oneself out of the noxious place.
Outside the box, imagination blossoms peacefully
Without the coerced necessity to play within the walls.
New tales embark on unexpected journeys
Demanding the narrator be an explorer to behove.
To find out better moments in decisions.
To finish pointless crushing of the bones.
There is a start that shifts the living
After the point of no return.

A tiny spider's silk unravels steadily, believing
It would be picked by hands so tender to its heart,
Instead of fortuital encountered
By a completely crushing stranger's palm.
The loosened strain that flows in open wilderness
Had better learn to weave a big, wide web,
Before it gets too sticky at the other end,
And guts are scattered all across the green duvet.

All mirrors have two sides:
The one that's clear,
The other is in shadows.
Be careful what you're trying to find out,
Not everything reflects the same old pattern.

By looking carelessly into what's meant to hurt,
Prepare your mind to bend in all directions.
To make some sense of what's behind closed doors,
The only guide is a heart that's strong yet tender.

When you intentionally turn back from being honest,
You lose yourself quite easily in a void.
There are no maps or written rules that warn us,
The only caution is the hidden crack that's in the front.

A mirror is a tricky thing to have around,
Some people never look beyond the waters,
And some, who dared to peek into the back,
Sometimes stay lost without an inner compass.

The main idea is to persevere,
Ascend from all those dim new colors.
And hopefully, get through by pondering the thought:
A distorting mirror always shows a surreal portrait.

The shadow work requires courage in submission,
The story goes even the toughest one is wrong.
Rewriting what has already been written
Will only waste the power to go on.

To face what's in the back of a glossy double,
Without an everlasting crumble or a twitch beneath the bones,
Is to accept the past dictates the freedom
From being blindly led, yet not all seem to know
That once the border is crossed, you must stay present,
Or else the mirror's sides turn into one.

Spin a wheel to see your fortune,
Push the handle to gamble an end,
There's a coin that predicts a good future,
A bearer of yellow threads.
Will you hope for a better answer
Or would you give everything you own
To come back with a champion's title
Just to have a few minutes of joy?
Cross the start to catch luck in a basket,
Ask a teller of what is beyond,
As the clock ticks, making a circle,
Read the lines your palm holds.
Scratch a ticket to see a silver lining,
Bet your word against all the odds,
Never doubt your gut, fearing something,
It just shows what it's truly worth.

Bric-a-brac high on a shelf, it might fall
On a floor with no carpet, might break and be gone.
It may slither, get lost, or be taken away;
Nevertheless, it just can't walk away.
It may gather dust, be moved, kept in hands, or removed
Somewhere else when the owner does not want to look.
Bric-a-brac is sometimes boring; it stands there so still,
Does not change by the hour its colors or kin.
It stays in one place with ease and a smile,
Happy to be someone's honor and pride.
It exists with no thoughts or dreams to become—
It is what it is, no less and no more.
After sunset, it is all the owner could want,
But by sunrise, sometimes they are gone all day long.
Bric-a-brac is still there; it's excited to be,
Unaware that the world might be cruel to it.
One day they could get used to it and throw it away,
Or resell for a penny, yet it's priceless, per se.
As for now, they admire its thinnest white skin:
It looks shiny afar, but too dull from within.
Bric-a-brac's just a vessel; it's hollow inside.
It contains what is gifted, spills back multiplied.
There are rainbows and lights if it's given some love,
Yet it is moved by an inch only once in a while.
It took ages to get in possession and own;
More time, too, has passed to trust in return.
Expected to be now a quiet trinket on a wall
Instead of a purpose: to be someone's all.

Someday the glass will be half-empty
And you’d get happy about that,
Cause yesterday was not so grateful,
The future, well, has not yet passed.

To see a glass already is a victory  
When you were struggling to have a sip.
A wandering eye, obstructing vision lately,
Somehow is focused, fighting to see clear.  

There are no words that could describe it,
There is no person who could really tell.
The glass could be half full and empty,
At least it’s real to begin with for today.