Behind the sweetie shop,
under the reproductions,
Leonardo, Botticelli -
Dark haired girl in shorts
hides the softness of a rabbit in her heart.
And across the stone wall,
love is riding a
borrowed bike.

- From the grey as sky jackets,
From the strange eyes...
I'll remember you

Cinnamon, dandelions and rain.
Sundays silently glittering walls.
Dark haired girl in shorts
drinks coffee and herds dusty tones.
And across the stone wall -
summer street
and souls bound.

- From the trembling fingers,
From the hats -
I'll remember you

You know the feeling
when you just live your life,
but you're not actually living?

it's just like being
in a circle of todays, yesterdays and tomorrows.

And then you catch yourself one day
lying on the floor
thinking
:why the **** am I so bored of everything?

I'm so used to love that lasts forever.
Well sort of.
All those “I love you”
That I never mean any more.

Next time I love,
I think I want it to be like fireworks.
Never sizzling away, but instead
exploding with a bang
in our faces.
Making us deaf and blind.

Like the kind of love
that makes me slam the door
on my way out,
and it makes you slam me against it,
when we have *** again the next morning.

I want the kind of love
that tugs every string of my heart,
turning me into cacophony.
The one that gives you rage
and then
gives us shattered dishes on the floor
in the morning.

God, I am so bored.
I really need to stop saying
“I love you too”.

I felt confused
as of why you didn't touch
my hand this morning
even though I felt so pretty
(you said I was so pretty)
and then when clock
turned to face the wall ticked 13:50
you let me leave.
Today
I really wanted to cry
but my throat felt like
I've been eating
sandpaper
and I couldn't
So I guess
I'm just standing
at the end of my world again
with no one
to hold my hand.




(You're beautiful) (No I'm not.)

On Saturday nights
I rule the world.
Twisting cigarette smoke
around my little finger,
I drink another shot
and pretend I'm not lonely.

Hello, beautiful.

And then we go dancing.
Make up smudged,
hair messy,
in a mirage of dizzy people,
I fall.

Heartbroken
and not there at all,
I hold strangers hand
and almost cry.
They say
tomorrows are always
better.

On Sunday mornings
I look in the mirror,
make up smudged,
hair messy.
Put myself together,
have coffee and then leave.

I'm too lonely
for it to be fun

Even though you said “Hello, beautiful”.