I love and I hate it,
This prolific sadness of mine.
I love being prolific,
I hate being sad.

Yet, I wouldn't just stop at writing,
I'd like to cry, talk, scream.
If I talked,
I would turn either into an overflowing river
or maybe in a silent, grey stone.
What I feel cannot be conveyed
with words.

In this moment I'd kiss whoever crossed my way,
abruptly,
just to beat him to death immediatly after.
I need love,
I need destruction
in this moment.

The only thing I can think of
is my nakedness,
it costed me lots,
I wish I never gave it away like that.
t's all wrong,
all too embarassing.
too fast,
horrible.

I was right:
What I really am is not good.
I am not entirely sure myself of what is is.
I found unknown parts of my being everyday,
I'm not who I thought I was.

Maybe, I'm not.