A kiss from your lips
Can make bitter taste sweet.
The feeling of your touch
Can bring feeling back to lost feet.

Dark days are irrelevant
In this apocalyptic place.
I feel nothing but happiness,
When I see your beautiful face.

But those sunny days
Don't seem to last.
Nothing but storms
Seem to be my forecast.

Because I see you with him,
And it produces pain.
I'm outside with no umbrella
And it's starting to rain.

one day,
i will fly.
i will fly above pain,
i will fly above sorrow,
and that day might not be tomorrow,
but i'll fly.
i'll fly to the moon,
to the highest cloud,
i'll fly over the damning crowd
that said i wouldn't soar.
oh, i'll fly.
i'll open up my big brave wings,
in myself i will believe,
and i'll fly and i will sing
and i will be all that i was meant to be
when i fly.

my life ends here / on a Sunday’s evening
after the cross and the globe on the church’s steeple became cooler
I have never felt more non-pain non-love non-fear
the asphalt feels empty and dull for my soles / the resounding box lost its echo
I step further asymmetrically / my soul is slanting / I have no better thing to do

than to stare at people right into the whole / the full of them
without any thought
only the shadow of my elbow embraces other shadows
en passant
silhouette after silhouette
Modigliani’s women / Brâncuşi’s magic birds
la dolce morte della luce
everything flows into thoughts / thoughts into other thoughts even Charon’s boat
and right now my lips paralyzed to stop me from proving something

It's been a while
Since I opened my lips,
And wrote the sweet words
With a voice that drips,
Sincerity.
Clarity.
Charity,
Hardly ever disdain in this voice
Of mine,
But plenty of it,
In the race of mankind.
It's been a spell
Since I wrote poetry well,
And where's my mind?
Neither in heaven nor in hell.
But on poetry,
How sublime

Now is the time,
When I realize that all that walking
All that sobbing,
All that pillow hugging,
Is because I probably have depression.
Or my life is just a pile of shattered glass,
Not easily fixed.
It needs help from the outside world.
Will the world help me?

I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Sharing my words picked out from life's hat

I can't find the most accurate to say
So letters I dabble in various permutations
Layers of letters turn into words and come to play
Could call them journals, these text-laden creations

But I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Penning the words picked out of life's hat

I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Relating experiences out of life's hat

I can't conjure poems... About anything or everything
Can't use my words to incite or inspire
These are just ideas and I just like rhyming
They are just experiences that fuel my fire

But I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me...  Spouting rhymes out of life's hat

I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Drawing scenes from life's hat

I can't sketch a portrait with a simple pencil
Can't put together an installation and call it art
I can paint fairly well; of which I have done several
I can draw out emotions and depictions from the heart

But I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Producing paintings out of life's hat

I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Playing melodies from life's hat

I don't have the quality of voice to match that of a crooner
I can't play instruments that could earn a place in a band
I can sing in key without the help of a tuner
I enjoy music best with a guitar in my hands

But I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Singing songs from life's hat

I'm not a writer, poet, musician or an artist...
I do a little of everything, not excelling at any one title
Although I wish to have everything clenched in one fist
All I ever really do is just dabble....