I’m tired of all the noise,
of the talkers who never shut up
about better days,
about how the sunrise
means something beautiful.

what sunrise?
I wake up to the stink of another wasted morning—
teeth aching from clenching too hard
against life.
I drink just enough to quiet the questions,
but never enough to stop asking.

people tell you to hold on
but they don’t tell you why.
they tell you there’s more out there,
but they never see you at 3 a.m.
pacing the same ******* floor,
with the same ******* thoughts.

there’s no great romance
in hanging on by a thread—
no one will write songs
for the ones who went quietly,
who stared into the void
and whispered, fine, you win.

I’m not looking for answers.
I’m not looking for heroes.
I’m looking for a way
to stop feeling like every breath
is another bad deal,
another moment borrowed
from something that’s already gone.

so, end me,
or don’t—
I’ll keep staggering along
the crooked line,
but let’s not pretend
it’s anything more than it is:
a slow crawl
toward
nothing at all.

the night is running beside me,
dark limbs tangled in the rhythm—
a pulse, a promise, a threat.

the drums don’t ask for permission.
they pound like a lover’s demand,
like a fist through the ribs,
like a city about to riot.

there is no plan, no end—
just movement,
just the heat of breath against breath,
just the horns, loud and reckless,
kissing the air like they mean to tear it apart.

this is not a song,
it is a fever, a chase,
a lover with wild hands and a knife behind the grin.

there is no stopping now.
we run. we dance. we burn.

the club was loud, drunk, and stupid—
a place where people forget themselves
just long enough to pretend they are free.
I wasn’t pretending.
I saw you.

two classmates, two drinks,
one thing on my mind.
I said hello, we talked—
but the other girl might as well have been a shadow.
it was you, only you,
and I knew it before you even touched me.

your waist under my hand,
hips moving, bodies too close to be anything but honest.
the music was deafening, but when I turned to you
and asked—
can I kiss you?
I swear the whole ******* world went silent.

then—
heat.
your lips on mine like something hungry,
something desperate,
something that had been waiting to happen
long before either of us knew it.
we didn’t stop.
we couldn’t.

your hands in my hair, my hands on your skin—
pulling, searching, knowing.
your body against me, pressed close enough
that I could feel your breath
before you stole mine.
I forgot the club, the drinks, the people.
I forgot everything but you.

you sat on my lap,
wrapped around me like you belonged there.
my fingers traced your spine,
felt your ribs, your heartbeat.
I wanted to press myself into you,
leave something behind
so that tomorrow, you’d still feel me
somewhere under your skin.

we had to stop to breathe,
but even that felt like a waste—
because every time we pulled away,
your eyes just dragged me back in.
and god, I never knew wanting could be like this.
like thirst, like hunger, like the kind of madness
that makes men build temples
and burn cities to the ground.

and now—
morning.
class.
the test I didn’t study for because I spent all night
learning the shape of your mouth.
I sit here, staring at you across the room,
wondering—
was it just a drunk kiss?
will you look at me like that again?
or will you let the night die
like something you never really wanted?

I don’t know.
but what I do know is this—
I never wanted to stop.
and I sure as hell don’t want to now.

i woke up this morning
with the same old ache,
the kind you don’t remember
until it’s there,
and it doesn’t care
whether you’ve got a plan
or if you’re just filling time.

the coffee was burnt,
the smoke curled up in the kitchen
like it was trying to make a point—
but who listens to smoke?
who listens to anything
that isn’t loud enough
to scream?

i walked down the street,
watched the same dogs
chase the same cars,
people pretending
they weren’t going to die
just because they smiled.
it’s all a loop,
like a song you hate
but know all the words to.

the bartender asked
if i wanted a drink.
i said no,
but still,
i picked up the glass.
the whiskey didn’t ask questions—
it just settled in,
numbing things
i couldn’t name.

it doesn’t matter,
none of it does—
it’s just you and me,
filling spaces,
waiting for the moment
we realize
there’s no moment to wait for.
it’s all happening right now—
and then it’s gone.

The city doesn’t sleep,
it mutters to itself,
like the old man on the corner
shaking his cup for spare change.
The lights blink out messages
you’re too tired to read,
and the streets carry whispers
of footsteps you’ll never follow.
You’re alone,
but not lonely-
not really.
The world’s still spinning,
the stars are still laughing
at us poor fools who think
this moment
means something.
But maybe it does.
Maybe that streetlight blinking ahead
is a sign.
Or maybe it’s just a bulb going bad.

Does it matter?
You keep walking.

Some people
never leave the office before five.
They sit under fluorescent lights,
sipping coffee,
their dreams filed away in cabinets,
marked „someday.“

Some people
marry their first loves
and never think
about the roads they didn’t take,
the lips they didn’t kiss,
the lives they didn’t live.
They call it safety.

Some people
die in bed,
a whisper for a live,
and the night swallows them whole.
Their gravestones say:
„Beloved.“
Their ghosts scream:
„Bored.“

Every room I‘ve lived in
still exists somewhere,
paint peeling,
floors scuffed by boots
I don’t wear anymore.

The walls hold secrets
I‘ve forgotten -
the arguments,
the silence after arguments,
the hum of the fridge
at 2 a.m. when I couldn’t sleep.

I wonder if anyone hears me now,
the way I hear the ones
who came before.

Life isn’t grand,
it’s a ***** table in a dive bar—
the one where the varnish peels and
your drink leaves rings behind.

People walk past you,
pretending not to see the mess,
the bartender wipes at it anyway,
but it never quite cleans up.

You make a toast to nothing,
to everything,
to the way the sun stains the air at 5 p.m.,
or the waitress who once gave you a smile
you thought was meant for you.

Life isn’t a stage or a script—
it’s that quiet shuffle of feet
as you step outside,
into the cold,
and realize you forgot where you parked.

I asked the moon for mercy.
It laughed -
said mercy was for lovers,
not those who wander alone.

|i bust through the fence|
like some dying ******* dog.
rust bites my skin -
i don’t even care.

glass and needles
smiling up at me,
begging me to fall.

|i do.|

face to the dirt.
blood running like it’s late for something.
but me?
i don’t feel a ******* thing.

not till later.
not till i’m already gone from there,
and everything i touch -
shirt, pants, face,
all of it -
is screaming red.

but **** it.
you’re still dead.
and no cut on my body
can scream louder
than the hole you left.

|crawled out|
through a hole even smaller.
left skin,
blood,
pieces of myself behind.

got on a tram -
eyes burning through me,
faces like empty plates,
staring.
i hide mine.
hide it deep.

jumped off at the next stop
before the world could eat me alive.

friends waiting.
questions.
questions.
questions.

couldn’t answer.
couldn’t even breathe.

one friend -
the only one who knew better -
wiped the blood off me
like i was a broken kid.

and that’s when it hit.

not just the blood,
but the real pain.
the gut pain.
the soul pain.
all of it crashing down,
ugly,
loud,
final.

i cried.
|i ******* cried.|

then we ran back to the city,
where the bottles don’t ask questions,
where you can drink yourself
into the dirt.

i drank you away that night.
or tried to.
but ghosts,
they don’t drown easy.