Kisses as knives

 A man wakes up, and the day is grey;

the sky is grey, his eyes are grey, his hair is grey,

his humor fits his color.

-

He puts a grey sweater.

Sigh! Time is my enemy.

Productivity, reactivity, will of fire.

Any kind of desire.

But no, it's a grey day.

One of the senseless days.

-

We pick up a memory, 

a past where more colors used to be seen.

Yet kisses arrive like thrown knives,

reminding us of other lives

we rather be living in this moment,

we rather be painting in other colors.

Yet, these moments are gone

it feels like until eternity.

It feels like now is all downhill.

It hurts.

-

The man is scared.

Will these memories ever be good again?

Will colors ever appear the same way?

He doesn't know.

He doesn't know.

But he wants it to be true someday.

He needs it to be true someday.

I wonder

What if I wished really strongly

that this small piece of wonder

could transform into something more?

What if I was afraid

that I’m rushing ideas,

that my dreams are just fears

and I will be alone again?

What if I felt this is unfair,

that she should be aware,

but not enforced into accepting it?

What if she has her own dreams

barely involving me,

and here am I, creating this whole scene

as if I’m the director.

What if I’m just scared

of being unaware, of being unprepared.

What if this is just me sabotaging myself again?

I wonder if this dream can even exist,

or is just an illusion again

to tell me all is better

when it ain’t.

Passion is out of my dictionary,

but here am I wondering,

as if it can just be created,

as if I can just feel it.

As if she would feel it too.

What if it all works well,

with me one day grinning

from side to side,

reading this to another smile,

while I stroke her hair?

What if she is unaware,

but not unwilling to be there

for this deluded dream of mine?

Should I phase this out as just an illusion,

or should I dream knowing it can happen?

Should I stop of hopefully write,

or hope the written words will take life

... and fly?

My Teatrical Disaster

 My head goes places.

It rounds on itself,

tries to control the controlling of it.

"I need to control myself less, leave it be and stop worrying"

"I need to control more to actually participate in my own life when I'm better"

Well, I'm not better

I'm not worse either.

Tired maybe.

But all my head thinks is disaster.

All my mind goes is to drowning.

The day you love someone and try it.

Everything will come only to implode on you.

Everyone will come only to judge you.

No one is looking, but if they do

they will check the trash you see in the mirror too.

Or the day that you'll try to get the dream job

oh, one of those big ones, childhood said and set in stones.

You anxiety will come to stop, your performance certainly will drop.

And you know.

This is all in your head.

All of these demons should be already dead.

But they are not.

They are here, they are there.

when I look it's everywhere.

Inner or not. Demon or not.

Sorry, am I crying too much?

Expecting too much?

What should I expect?

What should I think to be ok with myself?

It's like I said before

internal disaster, nothing functions.

the knots are formed in my thoughts

I'm not really clear what is true

and what is not.

But in the meantime,

my mind goes places

I rather forget.

Time's Arrow Only Marches Forward

 It's not art if it just comes out of fear is it?

It's just the demons speaking.

They tell me that's useless,

that I'm powerless,

I lack of any effort

or letter.

yet...

the weights in my hands...

prevent me from writing what I have to say...

..keep me from saying what I want to write.

They don't allow me to think

because when I do,

it's all blur lines in the dark,

it's all past tense,

it's all disaster ahead.

It's myself dead,

it's myself sad.

It's the fear to write

with the courage to admit the fear you have.

But is it really that brave?

If all I do is think without direction?

Breathe without conviction?

Laugh without substance, cry without being convincingly hurt.

It's all hurt,

it's all dirt.

It's yet another text,

another round for the fighter.

It's yet another instance

where feeling lost meets the writer.