Tight in my grip
I feel your nails slip
Digging deep
Digging hard
She says to me
He left me a card

For you, on whose
Oil painted skin the stars did sleep
For you again,
Who wept, wept in vain

I’d tie a butterfly to the unwavering sky
If only as a frail worm to
lure the fish
But did we not swear to leave the winged
alone?

Yet, there they are
Causing a reckless havoc
Trying to tear open the blue
And I’d shoot them down
But the ground is ours you see

Wounded and bleeding
The dying, as a fish, squirms
A broken spear pinning him in place

And I will keep on burning this dirt
To bricks
One betrothed to other
With cement,
Your own strange creation
The one you pour out your flutes
And pluck out them strings
Like fresh born weeds
dried and crushed

Songs upon songs
We set free up the yonder

But here is a bubble that will not be butchered
Like our sacrificial blooms
Ripened and fat,
This untouched pomegranate
Ravages itself

Long did our labor weave tales out ruin
To build us a shell
Within which we now reside

Unhatched

How do we do? It is pretty
A sight
The sky chokes on dirt and dirt
Drowns in the blue
Time, a trapped moth, flutters about
It collides around in its blind frenzy
And will not settle

I keep on
Painting our dry clouds
Birds still peck at gleaming stars
And you
You live, live in vain

Dirt
         You've turned into dirt.

Twisted away in fragile positions,
You've turned into dirt.
          How does it feel to be this vulnerable?

To be plucked from your home, and bought with dirt to be sold off to the husband who forgot his wife's birthday?

To be called 'beautiful', only to be left rotting away?
To sit beside a bed of 'beautiful' red roses, who think they'll be safe forever. To know they'll turn into you, you who has moulded into dirt.

These eyes fall on you now,
   they feel guilt,
      they feel remorse,
(they feel happy?)
          they feel like a murderer.

They run to drench you with water.

                           The poor white tulips,
                                              and the poor pink roses
                     will you be fixed from this phase of dirt?

I stand in the place where I stood before
Thinking of the time that is long gone
I remember how I laughed and cried here
Dreaming for this time to reach the dawn again

I look at the place of my former house
Seeing how fast time went by
I am grabbing myself a handful of dirt
Letting my emotions take over me

This house has been ruined by time
Angering me to take an immediate action
Only dust has left from the place of my lifetime
I throw the dust there to fill the abstraction

today i felt like laying down
and sleeping soundly in the ground

i'd decompose with all the bugs
that died from overdose on drugs

my hips would grind against boney narcs
like pornstars and pervs in a public park

yes, i'd like to be six feet under
singing with drug-induced wonder

I've spent an eternity staring at my own reflection
Trying to find out exactly what made me get here
and I've only ever found out one thing
That my life is absolutely pointless
but I also have a feeling that if I spend another eternity here
I will realize something else entirely

Because I've been having these dreams lately
these vivid, disgusting dreams
in which I know exactly the answer to the question I ask myself
And in these dreams, I don't seem the way I imagine myself to be
when I find out the answer
When I find out the answer
I imagine myself joyful
because why else would I spend eternities
trying to find out why I'm here
if if would not grant me a lifetime of joy?

I seem to be walking quietly around my childhood home
looking at my hands as they rot in front of me
And I'm walking heavily, you see
like I'm being chained to the earth
and I would have to spend yet another eternity
just walking around my neighborhood

I just keep walking until my feet turns into soil
And I turn into soil

I know now why I can't keep searching for something
I will never find