Lately I've been waking from my dreams
More unsettled than if they had been nightmares
I'm haunted by the shade of your eyes
As they reflect the fluorescent lights above
I can't shake the phantom feeling
Of your hand perfectly interlocked with mine
And sometimes when I sit down
I am struck by the fact that you are not next to me
Because it feels wrong

I leave room for you wherever I go
I just wanted you to know

The possibility of you
Beckons to me
In a voice like amber

I can almost feel your lips on my neck
And that does nothing
To help solve my sleeplessness

They live a life like ours
But they leave in the dark
They accent the beauty of flowers
They blow away to make their mark

In the cold days they leave the trees
Standing in the ice all bare
Wishing for a blanket of leaves
But life can only be fair

As they fly away to the sounds of the winds
Their call to make
And many die day by day
By the end they will break

And these leaves they breath
And there souls will flee
The branches they have freed
These leaves are me.

Recently I've been thinking
That I don't fit into your life
And I thought that this was because
I was like a piece from a different puzzle
Trying to force its way into an empty space
But now I'm thinking
Maybe the reason I don't fit
Is because you haven't made room
Like I'm waiting outside the doorway
Hoping that you'll take a step to the side
That you might welcome me in
But instead you've been standing in the entrance
Blocking my path
Now I just need to decide who closes the door
Will I wait for you to do it
Or will I take control of the situation
So maybe I can leave this with some of my dignity

“When people stop writing, it’s one of two things - they are either really ******* happy or broken beyond repair.”*

You have made me both of these - guess which one I am?

bio jednom siloviti brlja
prvo seje pa ga onda drlja
od onih je bio
to se dobro zna
nije im’o pokrete
kao ti i ja
gleda on u jednog mladića
gleda a bale mu idu
i za njega zidao bi piramidu
u banku mu tri kredita dali
al’ stropsa mu kalabaster

promineš kraj njih i ne znaš
stojiš u redu za uspomenu
zuriš u onoga sa osmejkom
ne poznaješ moj zadah
razaznaješ samo grmljavinu
iz tvojih vena
iz tvog stomaka
iz tvojih koraka
a ja čujem kako odlaziš
pitam se dal si sama odlučila tako
ili su odlučili konji
koji laju na broj
11

He's nobody's hero,
never wanted to be.
Just one of a million
who were sent overseas.
He dropped into France
on a long ago night.
Near Mere St Eglise
where he joined in the fight.
"These are the real heroes"
and he points to the Stones
of his friends and comrades
who never came home.