DefenseReality lulled spirit, until dreams awoke.
DesillusionmentI killed the illusion. ...hence died.
MemoryInnocence beamed from her skin. Yesterday.
On A Summer's DayPastries vanished. Giggle in tree house.
My Answer Why is it that you find life to be worth living? MaybeI value the sun on my facemuch more than the cold in my heart. Maybe I enjoy my tears of sorrow because they are salty and true. Maybe I love fighting so much, I even love my demons to fight.And maybe,when I lie awakeI beg for the strength to do so.
UntitledIm Hinterzimmer warte ich auf deinen Auftritt. Ich hasse alles daran, die kahlen Wände und den mottenzerfressenen Vorhang. Ich möchte raus hier, raus aus dem Theater, auf der Straße freie Luft atmen und deine Schritte hören, wenn du aus der Maske kommst. Abgeschminkt.Ich wusste nicht, wie lang das Stück ist.In meinen Schuhen wachsen die Zehennägel und meine Ungeduld. Reif trocknet bereits wieder auf meinem Haar. Könnte man das Theater abfackeln, dann hätte der Spuk ein Ende. Meine kalten Hände tasten nicht nach Zündhölzern, sie liegen verstaubt auf dem Tisch. Jemand hat Kaffee daneben gestellt.Ich höre Applaus. Warte ich noch auf den Anfang?Ich sehe dich eingefroren, still gehalten. Eine grausame Zeitlupe. Du erreichst die Bühne nicht. Dein Blick hilflos. Du weißt nicht, warum dies ein Albtraum ist, in dem du nicht laufen kannst. Ich kenne die Wahrheit, doch sie verbietet mir den Mund.Fünf Schritte nur, dic
My HeartShe never liked looking at her heart. It was a small, unshaped crystal with edges, where pieces had broken off ages ago. Time had made them blunt. There was no glow, no rainbow colours, only dull red, looking sallow on the outsides.She hid it well, the ugly little thing. Sometimes good enough that she herself could forget how it looked. She imagined it bright and beaming then, smooth and even. Then, she did not think of the holes and edges and told others about the inside light.Only when she met him, she held her heart openly on her hand. She carefully took his and put his fingertips on the blunt edges. He gently ran his fingers over it and she knew immediately that it was owned by him. Though, he did not know that he held her heart, when he picked it up and pressed his lips against it in a short and loving kiss. She closed her eyes and was not ashamed of the ugly holes and edges. She shivered with joy that he could love this tiny, unshaped thing.When he put it back into her hands,
I am waiting for you.I have become a nativeof platform 6,where the noise of trainsechos from cold stones.Where dull lightgives faces pale complexionsand weariness takes our life.Sometimes I’ll buy a ticket,just because.Sometimes I grab my trunk,pretending.But here I’ll stay,until.
Stubbornness"Getting too old..." - "Settle down?" - "Never."
Airhead (Oxymoron)Empty-headed.But so full of himself.
Just leaveSaying final goodbyes.Two hours pass.
PitfallI really messed up...where's "reset"?
Fate's Scratching PostYour sanity, shredded, while you wait.
Mother"I hate you" - her daily speech.
ForwardShe ran faster with clipped wings.
A BoyI dreamt of love; then woke.
CanvasBloody stains lingered on purity. Irrevocably.
HorrorYou know what's scary? Organic Chemistry.
One ShotShooting stars...Load, aim and fire.
Lost at SeaTiger swears Noah missed the boat.
Obituary of a SoliderTrained for years~Worked one day.
It's raining democracyWhen bombs fall, flyangels will
Learned by exampleThen, God tattooed the first bee.
prodigaleventually,running awaybecomesa routine.
oh my archimedesthere is a mediterranean maelstrominside of me, and frankly these demented bones,are inventing a thousand ways to drownmy soul inward,the curves of my cartilage are overripe vineyardsfor myriads of apprehensions blossomingage, insipid sand charting the honeysucklingprogression of snapping parabolasthe tempests swat opposing ranks& I am afraid that I have begun to lose myselfbetween the roaring of my ears, torrent in a can, a soulless man - and what is a man without a soul[ I'm lighter than that] these mythical caverns of what once was my daysare condensing into dripping pages,I want the books to etch my ru
AmpAmp Money doesn’t change people; it amplifies.
crushed moleculesthere is dirt in my veins:while a monument, a dirge,plays me weightlessi carry myself in the echoesi clothe myself in chemicalsa steady refurbishment--skin cells live for an averageof three weeks but bloodstains carpet for always(and some dirt alsocannot be washed clean).
CrossingHe in cinderella dresses. Father's disappointment.