the scars that skies paint,
on my face are stains,
that i preserve to show my soul.
i am a sucker for strong ffelings,
that often weep and get back up,
to paint colorful billboards in slums.
eyes are just nomads, they only see
the flame that is burning but the flame that's gone
is stored in aphorisms that mother's read
to their children at night, hoping
god will save them, from all above and below.
i seem to find solace, in tying up my body, using words
as knives that tear apart organs piece by piece.
it is better to die in honour, than masked radioactivity,
consuming you, like water in an ocean, like glaciers that do not want to melt and yet are subdued.
how long can someone play hide and seek, how long can u seek
shelter in the reality that often hides it's counterpart.
are you trying to smell the rose, or sacrilege the thorns?
these days will only end, in disbalance, like the ticking diving and
crashing of all the times, where forever was a noun in dystopia.
just stop listening, and start absorbing, time has lost it's crown,
humans have lost their endeavour, and
the only way to be truly sane, is flowing ever eternally like
the shape of water, succulent in all forms.
we are not one but many, scars that will draw out roads for us
to follow, roads that will lead us to meaning to we caanot comprehend with the five senses.
nobody is ready, nobody ever was.
tell me, how do we mourn such a privilege, one we
cannot touch, or feel or sense,
because what lies withing is forbidden to all of us,