You ripped it
my pretty little heart -
but that's okay because
now I can pin it
to a wall
and scream
This Is Art.

You will never read this,
never know these words exist
and that's exactly why
I wanted to tell you
right here that
I cried for you.
Last night, walking
through a pitch dark park
past other lonely souls,
tear after tear
I cried.
Because I felt
so
helpless.
Because I wanted to
fall back in your arms
but knew
I never ever
could
again.

'I'm a good lover
but not a good boyfriend
and I wouldn't want to drag you down
with what I'm going through
right now.
That's why I'm so careful around you.
(...)'

I forgot the rest.

She used to be a cloud
stretched endlessly
aimlessly
so the people below
would never know the sun.
Every now and then
she mustered up the strength
to rain.
Silent tears
slipped from her
incorporeal eyes.
And the people below
bowed their heads.
And only spoke of the sun
in legends and whispers.

The heartbroken witch
gazed at the flickering flame,
unable to take her eyes
off the candle slowly weakening.
‚And when you die‘
she whispered
‚Take my feelings for him
with you.‘

It did.

Our shared moments
have the life span
of a lit cigarette,
But for the very first time
I don‘t grieve for the ember,
that will never spark a flame.

We were never meant to be a forest fire.

Take my hand,
so we can jump
on board of the nearest ship.
Let’s sail into the horizon,
to where the sun vanishes
every night;
Let’s sail beyond,
into the unknown -
to where the stars
kiss the infinite seas.
Let’s get away,
and find a new place
to stay.

Tell me stories.
Not of heroes
and their worries,
no.
Reveal
what has long been
forgotten;
Left untold,
for their endings
were illogical
and unconvincing.
Sometimes
these stories
carry more life
within,
than the ones we praise.

We lit up
like a firework,
beautiful
but fleeting.

(rib-)caged little bird,
with an iron will
and sorrow in your feathers,
you beat
and you bleed.
Because that's what hearts do.
Next time I will listen.

leave these broken pieces
melted in my mouth
oh these pretty little lies
suit your knife edged smile.
what i would sacrifice for
honesty -
it seems to drown
beneath my fears.
my skin burns
but the fever
is a virus
is a sickness
is you.
i pray to gods
long forgotten
may there be a sense
in these roots.

Humans are like moths,
always drawn to the light,
the beauty.
They don’t even care,
if it burns them.
They willingly accept the pain,
just to be as close as possible
to what fascinates them.
At first I thought it is the natural stupidity
of both species,
that makes them reckless,
but after studying
their behavioral pattern,
it occurs to me,
that beneath their seemingly
thoughtless actions,
there lies
such a
desperation.
They crave the hurt,
because only when they are
burning,
fluttering fully lit up
and slowly
killing themselves,
that’s when both
the human
and the moth
feel beautiful.

it's late
(as always)
and I hear voices
voices in the trees
in the ever moving tides
and the star-specked skies.
they blur with the howling wind
or maybe they whisper in secrets
on purpose
to avoid lonely ears
such as mine.

Do not root
on clouds,
for they tend to
dissolve into nothing
but rain.

give me space.
give me an entire galaxy to explore.
leave me in star-specked darkness.
maybe i will find my peace between those dying suns.
adamant beauty and obsidian grace,
i'd bathe in the blackness if that means
i'd turn into a star myself.

Your scars are like stars,
carved into the night sky,
and now they are
bleeding light.

- It's called healing

I write and construct
words
day and night.
And if I lack
the paper
I even
write
on my
skin.

You kissed me
in the pouring rain
with nothing but jasmine
as our roof.

the way you talk
the way you walk
the way my heart
skips a beat
every **** time
you get too close.
don’t get too close.
you are the dream I never
wanna wake up from,
the wildfire in my dried out veins,
the reason
why I bite my lips crimson.
you are my air
and it feels like breathing fire.

as I drive by
yellow fields
shimmering
in all of sun's
splendour
and the wonderful
flowery scent
of May
hits me
I cannot help but
wonder
how I could ever
be sad between
all of this.

She travels like the rain,
never stays long
in the same place,
drips on ***** sidewalks
and hums a rhythm
on your window.
And she speaks like the wind
and she sings with the leaves
dying on the trees.
You wouldn’t catch her
if you tried.

She smiled slyly
and the universe
erupted
with life.

I would rather
write about the colours of early spring,
than to rack my brain
about the exact shades and swirls
of your eyes.
I would rather
describe the softness of fur
against my fingertips,
than to miss the silken touch
of your hair.
I would rather
wonder about the stars in poems,
than to search for nonexistent love
between the lines.
I would rather cherish the moment,
than to wonder
what could have been.

honey-hued hopes
and stardust specked dreams,
a sea of gray shapes
inked solely by midnight blue magick
and pine needle green fear.
Emotions have colours
and so do my lies,
hand me some scissors
I'd like to cut through these ties.
Just as spilled sunrises
the winds are always tinted
in pale morning light.
They talk to me
as if dawn has yet to come
and fragments of an indigo future
are hiding in slumbering flowers.

we haven't been in love yet.
we haven't been in love
yet I wish time
would spin for me
not against,
like a merry-go-round,
round and round it spins
until I'm in your arms.
and butterflies are finally
hatching inside my belly.