how disturbingly insidious you are.
you must hate me, don't you?
i mean who are you?!

you're playing tricks on me like crazy. that's for certain. and if anything is for certain in our drug-plagued country, then it is this certainty: that you ― the child-like dictator ― want to rule over me.

let me explain to the reader why i am saying so:

an hour ago, i was taking my son to kindergarten. closely to the chest my little daughter eden; sleeping in a baby carrier.

after i had dropped off my son, ideas for new poems were going through my head.

i eventually decided to write a poem on drugs, written from the perspective of various mind-altering substances.

well. fine.

i got home. my wife took eden out from the baby carrier. i was ready to write. only one cigarette first. smoking on the balcony. don't need my kids to inhale toxical fog. and don't need to know them about my smoking habit.

suddenly, out of the blue (no: out of the dark) ―

out of the dark, you made my heart beating faster. my heart was racing. my heart was banging against my chest.
secretly, you creeped through the area between skin and soul.
seconds later, you made it somehow to reach my mind.

inside my head, you were not saying anything. i don't hear voices and i'm not crazy. (that's the second certainty i am gaining from writing this poem.)

you're not a talker, child-like dictator. you're a quiet addict, depressed and scared to speak with others. because you do fear people, closeness and love. you fear them so much that you want to do drugs in order to feel something else than fear. and to numb how afraid of love you are.

a poor creature you are. but your attempt to ****** me quietly today: it failed.

and you know why? because i have friends. and many of these friends have been struggling with their own dictatorships. feel me.

i won't let you make my decisions.
gonna stay clean.

for me. for my family.

adios amigo. don't pressure me like you do. try to love me as i love you.

try to love.
try to.
try.

mikey

i am threatened by someone:
every day

in my head
behind my eyes
behind my flesh
in the land of my soul there lives a dictator

to whom i listened far too long
this dictator wants to **** me
fully and entirely

it may sound contradictory:
i do not hate him since
he is weak and overfilled with doubts

his shouts are coming from my
childhood; he looks similar as i looked
when i was four years old.
(only similar, uuuuuh yeeah)

the child-like dictator is disguised in a dress of childly needs.
his spirit is not spiritual.
he is only child-like:
a copy.

and his insidious siren calls:
now they sound like the voice
of a lonely man.

believe me, child-like dictator:
i do tolerate you as a part of myself.

be certain, dictator:
i won't follow your ideas, needs and orders.

you may stay.
i walk freely.

Farmer John is up
It's early in the morning
A cup of Joe
Is what he needs to go

Barbershop, clean cut
The sun is bright and pearly
Some shaving cream
Will put you in a dream

A cup of warm milk
On winter's eve
Is all you need

Warm bed,
Its snug,
It's warm, it's wet, you peed

"How embarrassing!"
The sheets rolled up and dripping down the stairs

Bad parenting?
I don't think mom or dad will really care.

shine // memories twinkle in my mind

shine // we must’ve looked 100 times

shine // I spy with my little eye, A bittersweet goodbye

Lord, make everyone 6 years old
and while I'm being unusually bold
fill them with 6 year old wonder
and a 6 year old's hunger,
with 6 year curiosity
and a 6 year old's honesty.
Give them 6 year tenacity
and a 6 year old's capacity
for a 6 year old's need
at live at half-speed,
content to let life
be their daily delight.
Oh Lord, I ask that each of us might
keep a 6 year old's insight
and live this life
6 year old childlike.

We aren't on the playground anymore
There are new rules
We have to be mature but
Mustn't lose the spirit of childlike wonder
What is love anyways?
Maybe it's supposed to break all the rules
Life is short
When two people find each other
What should stand in their way?
I think we love who we love and
There just isn't a **** thing that can be done about it

“Oh hell yea, they’re suffering! They’re believing that they can go home, but aren’t getting any closer to the Entropoid Valley which leads to Kubla Khan, by whom they were cremated and born. Instead, they’re here, whiling away their days for boys who are bringing the death of days.”
“Hold your thoughts, lad!” Yells the Cameraman of the Head.
“I’m here, I’m in your head ImhereImhereImThere. You’ve no right to chastise the boys who have not kissed the horror. They’ve seen it, yes. But they haven’t captured it, you see. I am the camera, in my ribs are the film reels, the oscilloscope in my uvula, the trigger rested in my right earlobe. I tell you, there is strength in their brutality, I can bring you the tribal taste.”
“Man, we was just talking about centrifugal farce.”
“Centripetal.”
“No, was it?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Hey! I believe-“
“Can’t be”
“Shan’t be”
“Oh, whatever. Those bullets find their way to the ***** anyhow.”
“Anywho.”
“Hey, grab your Coca Cola, Clean. We’re ‘bout to miss the show. The cameraguy could record it if he wants.”