All that you left me just some wordly drugs…
In a world full of shadows;
A shape of a face – human like me,
A shade of a grace – as if she likes me,
Then, everything has been a play of shadows.
All left to me is some wordly drugs…
Braces and necklaces, all phosphorescence;
Discoball beyond a huge ball with music,
Sending down any impulsive fluid,
That’s my only quintessence.
You left me only wordly drugs…
I live with what you’ve written,
Enjoy then the misery of your hands,
Watch me to suffer; see how he pretends,
To enjoy your wordly drugs while just getting sicken.
Thanks God for the wordly drugs.
My muscles are tied to two wild horses,
The Morning and the Night,
The lines are held by the work I’m doing,
And the wipes by the time.
The days are yielding to their courses,
Absorbing my might,
The fatigue obliterates what I’m doing,
Any good thing or crime.
The only clean things are these morses,
Crying s.o.s. in the fight,
But the horses are just pursuing,
They listen to no rhyme.
I dreamt a dream that some demons must have sent,
Feeling all the pains I underwent;
No pictures, no hues, just the feeling,
All my bruises and cuts without healing.
I dreamt a dream that was set as sent by Death,
But it did fit no reasoning, nor math;
No relief, nor aftermath, just the moaning,
Like a self-pity-full, endless night and morning.
I dreamt a dream that was meant to be my end,
A fearful damnation, not mend;
All the pain and immense sadness,
Making every deathwish sickeningly reckless.
I was sent a senseless dream with Death being mad,
Vengefully meaning me dead;
I felt blueishly cold and in dreadful purple,
Hiding in my last reckless prayers as a turtle.
I was meant to dream a dream that was chance or warning,
Putting up the black phone calling;
With every evidence Death’s hands hang,
I wished not dreaming that dream while it just rang, rang, rang…
The sweetest dream
seems a mere nightmare,
The yesterday aches
by all pain of the future,
The present things
remain as they were,
All the disasters
of the news are neutral.
opiates or other drugs,
None of them
makes you feel alive,
But they may help
to forget all the goods,
Before the peace,
in form of death, arrives.
Bite on the lips
that get kiss only by ruth,
Stay in silence
on all the fake conversation,
you’re asleep or it’s the truth,
Then, enjoy the curse
of being a poet.