i grab my pen,
the pen that lies on the blank canvas in front of me.
around me is a world made of white, because my canvas will never end.
so lifeless, but what makes it seem so beautiful?
in the beginning
it was my job to let there be life
so i touch my pen on the canvas,

with caution,
with passion


in the beginning, i created life

why do we sleep
just to be awoken?

i rather sleep in

why do we keep words in our mouths
that would be better spoken?

i rather speak out
but somehow the words are caught  behind my lips


how are we supposed see the world
in our own light?
because the world seems so empty
and so quiet to me
like a small unknown town at night
yet to be discovered
yet to grow tall