#202002

A council of priests
A naked boy in the street
A murder of crows

Why did you do that?
They may ask, no one really caring –
To run away, he would reply to
No one really listening

From what.

A party of desperation
An orgy of blame
Who did what –
And who’s is the fault.

The boy still running
Naked, in the woods
No one bothers
to give him a sweater

or call an ambulance.

dream dimension

Sometimes I still wake up
in my childhood bedroom.
My eyes wide open
I try to make sense of the shadows.
Was the bookcase next to my bed,
or was it the vanity?

Sometimes I can still feel
the soft psychedelic lullaby
of the rhythmic pharmacy green light
creeping through my blind-less window.
Red, then green, then red, then double green –
looping on the ceiling
and in my restless dreams.

Will I be trapped forever
in this yellow-walled room
chased by ghosts sipping blood
out of cartoon decorated bedsheets?

#22

you may not realise
but my soul has become a vessel
for collecting all the hurtful things you say.
the moment you say them, it absorbs.
it takes them in and there is no way out.

they multiply.
they expand in volume and in time.
they stay there, and they rot.
they become heavy.
they smell bad, and they make me nauseous.

i am cursed to remember every word.
every sob.
every scream.
every pause.

you may think you are hurting
because i am destroying myself,
but you have been destroying me
bit by bit,
word by word,
breath by breath

since the moment you thought you wanted to help me
but forgot to ask me, how.

The Dream

my dreams manifest in layers:
the central narrative – the Dream,
and then waking up
again –
and again,
until i reach the bottom.

it happens when the dreams
are wishes,
and it happens when the dreams
are fears.

i wake up in a dream
a thousand times
only to realize later
that i am still dreaming,
still not knowing
whether the main narrative
is true,
or yet another dream

of you.

If you’d let me

If you’d let me,
I’d make a list of the things I see
and they remind me of you,
and I’d send you postcards with poems –
I’d get you flowers in colourful pots
for you to take care of,
and every Sunday I’d send you a picnic basket
– except for the times I’d bring it myself

If you’d let me,
I’d write mixtapes for you that you’d never listen to,
and I’d sing loudly in the car the songs that make me think of you –
I’d make you coffee and breakfast in the morning,
and I’d recite you pieces of my favourite books
until you’d shut me up by making desperate faces

If you’d let me
I’d be there for you, to listen about everything you’d want to say
I’d stroke your hair and boop your nose,
and I’d hold your hand and cuddle you in the dark,
and in the light

If you’d let me
I’d become anything, for you.

Only you didn’t,
So I became everything.
For myself.