There are so many courses I could have taken,
so many paths, fighting down my traumas,
so many hearts to make my own re-awaken,
but there would be always a me…
… who has to suffer.
So, I am not mistaken that it is me…
The Martyr of My Happy Alteregos.
The smallest drop of freedom
can make a slave for ever dreaming,
the smallest drop of happiness
can make a sad one for ever grieving,
and the smallest drop of love
can make the soul for ever living
in dreams and griefs.
My childhood’s broken reality haunts past, present and future;
dark traumas turned my fate to undergo on torture –
searing and healing, then searing and healing, and never relieving;
all my bad omens keep ceaselessly repeating,
sealed into my soul from the very first till the latest hour:
I’m happy for those whom I could save from this terribly cursed power
to being able seeing the cures of all the bad times
that themselves curse my every hope all the times –
a whispered ending that’s never ending: we are all alone,
whispered, but it’s waving through all the wall
that could separate a broken reality’s dope
from a seeding soil so real that it’s even deceiving, saying: there’s a hope.
Once, I told you I wished we were free to our will
to be together as I do want it still –
without made up social contracts as religions;
what does love do with ruling nations?
Meeting you was fate of coincidences, that
we were sharing in life the same debt
from our parents and ancestors, the curse
that we cannot be good, only worse.
I’ve almost accepted the curse as my nature
when I met your highly pure feature
to learn, and go, not to giving up to learn,
but our demons led to give up to earn.
Breaking under hardship, seduction and pride,
concepts of dignity, the weak human mind –
I don’t know what could push us away so far;
but both of us stopped fighting who we are.
“If we met in a bar”, “if I could turn back time”,
“returning seven years old, would I do the same crime?” –
such questions pop up with no sense of reality
because we have but pictures, then we see through our cavity.
We believed it’s over – even if I didn’t and don’t wish so,
call it martyrdom, dignity – I don’t think so;
we just gave up on reality that we both adored;
and now we are living hell for it with no reward at all.
How much suffering, a mortal soul could bear
until recognizing that forgiveness is our divine elixir;
forgiving for giving up on us, forgetting the pain –
just like a wicked god-story; repent or suffer in vain.
Probably somebody popped up in my mind –
Among all those possibilities
Out of the void,
Among all those responsibilities
I try to avoid,
There’s a beam of trust
That holds every doubtful thing as a whole,
That gives me and only me a role,
That keeps me human after all –
Monsters must or must not be alone –
Keeping you as my mortal and eternal goal.
I’ve got a life sentence for every moment of happiness
because a thousand lives are lived by the one who thinks,
and has no living, only in his thinking of
dim fantasies and happenings of
what we had and now we don’t.
I had paid with terror for every evening tale of happiness
in the comatose moments of an easeless clock
that turnes the scenes in glance of shock
from dull peace and meekness
into whirling nightmares.
I paid dear for gazing at every unmerited gems of happiness
that were clearly not meant for such filthy hands,
holding torture in past and hast in the future
for once, ending that doubtful esurience
for all the good that I was bad for.
I’m paying an ocean for every single drop of happiness
that buries me with a million tons of darkness,
hits me with a thousand Newtons of waves,
and suffocates me without measure
for only the thoughts I had, have.
I’ll be paying a never-enough price for the least of happiness
because I’m destined for the opposite of good,
and I am still kicking away the bad mood
that always had cradled, peddled
and will have settled me.
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.