we are neon.
we wear it on our hair,
on our eyelids
and on our clothes.

at night,
we are nobody's sons
and nobody's daughters.
we lure in
moths
that see us like specks of light
in their own subconscious darkness.

we are alive,
but the sun still rises up
if we die.

we are neon.
beautiful and wanted,
young and noble,
our bodies shine in
yellow, green and blue,
but our wounds are red.

the boy with black hair
talks like a renaissance person
and shines like Venus.

he is ******* up and brilliant,
he is cold and full of venom,
but he cannot love
and he cannot die.

my mind has been far,
wandering through his universe.
it stops and listens to his heartbeat.
silence.

the world is his,
but he does not belong here.
the boy is a sphere
of incomprehensible truths
and we are just a circle.

r.c.
r.c.
you are my only ticket to eternity.

she walked on the pier
to be closer to the heart of the sea.

as the girl was waiting for
the waves,
the shells
and the moonlight
to empower her once again,
some tears fell on her cheek;
they were cold and salty.

the wind was calling her
by the name
given at the birth of the universe.
the marine creatures
were humming and scampering.

she couldn't be helped that night
but the sea was still her salvation.

it was high time
she had become a mermaid.

her feet never touched the land again;
she went further the end of the pier.

if you end up hurting me
i will look up to the universe,
grow roots in the ground
and shed tears while smiling.

does not every experience
bring us closer to this world's heart?
a string of light connects me to you
since the day we first met
and now it is just getting brighter.

i don't know how to live
and this is my best excuse.
you can leave me.
you can try to break the string.
you can continue to believe that
you are the center
of something infinite.

last week, a black car
appeared out of nowhere
while i was riding my bike
on a busy street.
the headlights burnt my eyes
and my fingers clung to
the handle bar.

i think i died once then.
i passed the initiation.
now, it is time to risk.

this thing with two wheels
is everything i own.
New York is 200 miles away.
i am going to ride the bike
that once brought me to death
to the most golden
point.

that spring i had to leave
before the lilac trees bloomed.

the hills of peace slowly changed
to the streets washed with bleach.

empty mountain dew bottles
on the pavement
took the place of the grass.

this city was never going to grow
because people were always so upset
about days with rain.

three weeks in
i caught myself wondering.

wondering if:

if the color of the lilac i left was
as purple as a healing bruise?

if i climbed their tower blocks
could i see the other side?

if the time were to stop
would that still be called eternity?

then a lifeless object rang
and reminded me
to get back to my new life.

the imagine of the budded trees
slowly erased from my mind.

i am sorry.
the light agressively
woke me up and
made me live another day
as a part of this
insanely organised world.

you said i had a
beautiful, misunderstood
mind.
so i began to act like
i did not belong there.

if only you hadn't failed
to be my home,
if only i had learned earlier
that i am in control
of my present.

these modern tribes
are so afraid of
loneliness and death,
each life is mediocre
and golden
in the same time.