the idylie of two beloved
who are not discriminated
neither by each other
not by others
because of their gender
isnt it utopy?
Ask by some gay paars,
whether they ever forget
how they anounnced about their love
to their  orthodox parents...
what a hidden pain..
which always will remain
ask by the woman in suburb
how many *******
devastated her heart
before she met this handsome practical guy
who she may not really love
but cherish just the appereance of love
in form of elementar peace at home
without daily scandal
How oft we play satisfied when
in reality cats in the soul scratch
sometime there is no sight
how to difference lovely clotherness
from the chain of compomise
which people care
with clothed eyes.
happy love relation is rare
but luckely they are, they do exist.
but what about this phenomen like friendship?
Almost everybody would say
she/he have good friends
the paradox consist only in a fact
that modern life in the west
never  put this
kinship on exam
since people are financelly independent
other else too, when they clients of the dole
and live from welfare
they are secured
there is no situation happens
that friend must to sell their car, or
put a ring from a finger
to salvate their friend from some calamity..
those friendship mostly base on
pleasant time spent together
out of any mutual bonds...
but friendship to its limit
is yet more dangerous
than a love to its limit.
Therefore such claim hardly exist
„friends“ mostly knows very well
where the limit of their mutual aid
this awareness is tragic,
especially utopic is true friendship
between male and female
to certain point it works
but when someone of both
step on thin ice
for example of unanswered love
to somebody else
here patience of friend ends
who want support dream of
friend
who is desperated lover
when reality shows here is dead end
but true friend would help by any „utopical“ situation
she/he will find any remedy and make magic thing happen.
And friendship between artists
isnt it where should be especial tight bond?
„I love you when you show“
it is what observation say of such very bonds..
today artists think they were gods themself
they curate the life of mortal in their work
and give no **** when their good deed
will not being mirrored in the art
the time of unique like Simone Weil expired
and when such altrusit with a keen sense for human justice
somewhere still live
they will die young like she did
or will be driven insane.
And we will never know about their dream
their fight, their resistance
because they were not writer or philosopher
like Simone Weil ocasionally was.
you will say this piece is written by
sheer frustrated one.
You exactly didnt guess.
Yes of cause I am frustrated one
but i find satisfaction balance
not to dream about true friendship
because such adjectiv is too relative
anyway what is true friendship to my graspe
Is possible meet only in myths
but though to thousandth time dare in:

imagine friendship
imagine mutual creation
imagine peace

That night she wanted to prove her beauty.
So she killed all light.
Letting only a dim-dip from the moon to reflect how she danced seductively in calm, bold waves, wearing her night black gown now
heading my way .
That night I felt her beauty with all names men had for senses and some god only knew existed.
The sea was always a possesive lover who's satisfied only when humidity consumed every inch of me,
Leaving my breath heavy, skin sticky with her water.
But that night, as if assured I'll be hers forever she pulled back
sending unapologetic rough wind that matched the loud waves still dancing beneath me.
I closed my eyes and layed down on her shore in complete surrender;
letting her wipe every memory of love before her.
"Wash me"I mouth loud enough only for her to hear.
Why was I touched before.
My brain became heavy with her smell that I kept ******* gulps of, and felt tears collect themselves in my eyes.
I discovered the happiness they kept bragging about in complete decoy.
If only they know what happiness felt like.
Ocasionally I'd peak at her to see endless folds of black and my heart runs fast with fear of its majesty.
She accepted what I am, enjoyed swallowing my dark thoughts into her even darker descending bottoms.
Her distance made it clear I was not to touch, only taste her.
For once I couldn't mind,
I threw the weight of my sorrow and passed into a state I still don't have synonyms for.
Her love made me complete,
I was ready to leave this life then and there with no regrets or a second look.
For everything would be tasteless after her

once upon a time,
a doctor told her that her heart was broken.
a war drum with a worn-out head,
just waiting to bust.
now her nightmares of heart-attacks haunt her at all hours;
she hates knowing that she's destined to beat herself to death.
she's never felt this worthless.
lately,
she's been wondering what drownding feels like,
she never thought it a topic to ponder,
but the water makes her feel so free.
she'd so much rather rest beneath the waves
than sit and wait for her engine to fail.
maybe she should fly more often,
tossing back tiny bottle after tiny bottle
of six dollar whiskey,
fingers crossed that they'll all fall down into the sea.
she'll sink if she tries hard enough.
a heart condition translates directly into
"incapable of loving, or ever being loved"
in her eyes,
so why ******* try.
now she burns bridges like roman candles
and shells out all her cash on any day that rent isn't due;
no point in holding on to what you can't take with you.
she stains her flesh instead.
words she only wishes you'd have whispered in her ears instead of stuffing them into envelopes,
her favorite flower,
and a hawk feather,
for whatever luck she can get.
sometimes,
during her morning cigarette,
she laces up her sneakers and bolts,
as fast as she can in any direction,
just to see if her heart can take the heat of her heavy feet skimming over the street.
the engine in her chest revs loudly,
like the car of a teenage boy.
they're all little boys-
she's a woman.
she's pretty positive that everyone cries at night-
even the dogs and the crickets and the birds.
we've all got nightmares,
hers just happen to seep out and taint the daylight.
what she needs,
is to befriend the monster under her bed.
he can feed on her inner demons and stitch up her heart with his glaring smile,
and hazle eyes.
in turn,
she'll share her bed
and now and then,
he can rest his head on her chest and translate the siren songs of her unsteady pulse.
she needs a ******* friend.
one who always cares instead of a good few who only ocasionally pretend to.
someone who's more than willing to walk a few blocks to dollar beer night,
and braid her hair for her while she yaks in the trash out back.
yeah, something like that.
it's her heart,
not yours.
or yours or yours or yours.
but her's,
and it hurts.
it races all night like nascar rednecks who pointlessly drive in circles for hours.
don't tell her how to fix it,
or not to worry,
or that everything is going to be fine.
it's not.
it's her heart,
and it hurts.

Ocasionally, on a breezy night, when
the winds are blowing through.
I listen as the grasshoppers chirp, and
paint the morning dew.

And In the morning when
the chirping choir has gone their seperate ways
I hear the clouds rumbling in
to bring the afternoon some shade.

Soon the clouds grow darker, as
they hide the sun from sight.
Bringing out the glorious moon,
and turning day to night.

Then the winds start howling,
calling out their names.
Bringing out the night time chirpers,
to sing their song again.

I / Before

I moved slowly,
always wanting to reach
the end of the narrow roads.

I found deceptions and satisfactions;
more deceptions than satisfactions
and more plurals than singulars.

I coveted everything
beyond these high walls,
even so I didn't rush my life.

I believed in other people's beliefs
and I hoped which from me
the time to slip away... killing me, then.

II / During

However, neither it I could get.
I followed so many ways
and neither they could help me.

Ocasionally I sighted daisies
blossoming on the walls
and among the tiles of the streets.

Sighting so many daisies was madness.
Well, to hell with sanity!
And what would be of life without its paradoxicality?

Much suffering for little time!
Little contemplation for much beauty!
Much anguishe for little heart!

III / After*

Oh, the other side:
feared by a few,
coveted by others.

Although the labyrinth
seems infinite and sufferable,
we can find the exit together.

The question is not how we can get out,
reaching, at last, the afterlife;
and yes, how we can end with so much suffering.

To start over, we must wake up!
To wake up, we must exist!
And like this, life will wait for us!

No one choses to suffer,
No one choses to "always be sad",
How could you say Depression is only a 'choice'?
"Oh, it's only just a fad."

You must think it's simple,
To go on and wake up,
Your life must be so easy,
Hell, it isn't so tough.

Tell me about all the money, that can be counted in bills,
How many people are truly there for you,
How you live atop a hill.

Was it you who was nominated, the best at your job?
The one who graduated and had enough to eat?
Or were you the one I last saw,
Who cried himself to sleep?

Perhaps you were the one who had enough to be on his own,
Maybe you were the one in a bar, drinking yourself away-alone.

Tell me how you live your life, always with a smile and your ego so high,
How you never once sat and had thought, "I might as well die."

Depression is not hypocritical, it is a sickness to many,
Whether or not you can or cannot count every penny.
It doesn't always scream, it doesn't always cry,
It can often be found in painful laughs, or a clever written lie.

Some may suffer gravely, some found in death,
Some may be pained ocasionally or with every strangled breath.
It is found in young or in old, man or woman of the world,
Some by the embraced or those who have been hurled.

The next time you speak of fortune,
To insult or to brag,
Make sure your own life isn't begging-
behind a fitted mask.