Draft

I might just not be there
when you look again at me,
might have been blown away,
alone, as alone one can be.

I do want...

I want to travel light
leave my luggage on the rack
of that car that just passed by
let it go without a sight.

I wish I was a vessel
lost at the furious black sea,
want to find myself sinking,
drowning as you let me be

in your heart, soul and arms
rocking me as in thin air,
while sand falls from distant clouds
I am no longer in despair.

Bewildered

Let the pain
go down
slowly,
let it slip
through
your mind,
make way
for melted
reasons,
there really isn't
a lot of time

For me
to find
a fancy,
yet another
eerie
thought,
that appears
has been wrought
by your silence
and the walls

That you build
around
my feelings,
let me out
through one
door,
can't you see that
I'm starving...

It doesn't rain
anymore.

Ugly Love

Great song.

Branched off

I dreamt of a thread, winding up in my head,
wrote secretly a truth, thought could have been a sleuth,
did it on the walls, like those days at the stalls
with presence,
and absence,
your essence fills it all.

I listened to the wind, stitches on my skin,
these days life feels so thin, rain keeps coming in,
I can barely hold your token, dare to think a door is open
a few lines,
showing signs,
account now for lost times.

I dreamt of a thread, went back twenty years
the sound of your words, traded my days with tears,
they dried my eyes, but not my soul
which in disguise,
kept this light
to pour in your bowl.

No Mercy

He looked for faces, in familiar places,
and found his town, turned upside down,
all he cared for was now
a wreckage.

How do we get from one day to the next,
with no water, no light, no gestures,
you know we could've fight that beginning,
and embark on such an adventure,
but some of them chose the language of violence,
and all of them the words of their god
they simply dismissed a challenge
hardly believe they just forgot.

And he wonders why it still keeps spinning
while we sit amidst all these dead
only three hours of misery
after which his life hangs by a thread.
He does not want to keep running,
wants to see his kids fly a kite,
wishes only to hear the good notes
and not the hatred that begins to ignite.

Will it be another addition
to the backyard of our minds
to consent on such a massive carnage
so ferocious it is almost blind.

So as the fools show no mercy
and shouts come from distant lands
hope withers in every corner
as flowers begin to die.

Maybe Sunday

We throw conversations into phones,
pretend they make us flesh and bone,
it feels my blood has turned to dust,
the air smells like it's full of rust.

As if
there was
some hope,
of life
becoming
to cope
with me.

Remembrance is all we have left,
of days whose nights we took as theft,
fences surround houses next door,
leaves cover feelings I ignore.

My mind
wraps
around,
one idea
full
of sound
for you.

Prompted by my request,
maybe Sunday, was just said,
people take the streets to get,
all sorts
of odds and ends,
all types
of little gems,
keep waiting for some reward,
that maybe I cannot afford.