Poem: When we are ourselves

In an endless blue, I hold up a red balloon;

                    waiting for things to happen.

We lost something familiar in the connection,

as the nervous river of thought feeds our bodies,

in cloaks of invisibility we wish to hide.

Hands that used to wipe away our tears,

when there were monsters under our beds,

                     have grown away from us.

So we learnt to be unmoved and untouched.

We hide our vulnerability under our cloaks.

How can we ignite a life into a new heart

                     and call it an accident?

Then we are tragedies,

crashing one over another.

We are not a definition of life.

We collect pieces and dots of eternal summer rays

and flickering shadows of raindrops.

How those insignificant stains

make a much more meaningful picture.

A single drop can colour a glass full of water;

                      before it melts away;

– that’s what happens when we are ourselves.

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Poem: Of skin dreams

He asked her why she carries the moon upon her shoulders;

but her answer gave him more questions than answers.

»So that the ghosts I know become faceless.«

He knew the balance between intruding and letting things develop.

»May I give you stars, so people might confuse you for a night sky?«

She smiled apologetically: »I didn't ask for the stars,

but for someone to lay down with and watch them.«

It starts with a few gentle piano keys.

Between tiny neon bulbs we spread our hearts on these sheets,

wishing our hands would grow roots

into each other skin.

“My eyes are burning and my eyelids feel heavy,” she said.

“But I’m afraid to even blink,

‘cause all of this could be gone when I open them.

My mind keeps reaching for you.”

He put his palms against her cheek and said:

“Your skin and nerves developed from the same group of cells.

They were of a familiar mind; lovers like you and I;

they were separated, but made something beautiful out of it.

Now the nerve cells keep grasping towards the skin.

They never give in. Carefully listening to every stroke, brush, tingle...

So don’t be afraid to rest your eyes,

I’ll draw dreams on your skin.”

---- so many ways to touch someone

electricity of our fingers leave us breathless

refilling our lungs, restarting our hearts

until there is no fear left inside.

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It's kind of weird how this poem and drawing accidentally fit together. Neither one influenced the other.

Poem: Shadow of our lives

the stones we gathered have disappeared

crystal air-bubbles invading through the hourglass

escaping through the oceans with no memories

          of our precious minutes

in the room where clocks keep on ticking

          I see it clearly now –

our lives are plays displayed on our dashboards

if I write a story, would you play a role for me?

- touch me deeper than myself, for I am not a fragile bird

or would that be totally inappropriate?

           among twenty-seven versions of us,

we write down the one designed by time and space

I searched for a definition of myself in your words

as if your eyes have a better understanding of myself

now we don't seem to care if the other lives of dies

we painted on the walls of our parents house

writing down stories of the faces we found on the ceiling

          - not giving much care to the one we were living

we carelessly ran away from things – not knowing they always ran after us

we knew that when we grow tall our feet will fit in the grown-ups' shoes

and we'll take longer and more important steps

little did we know our faces will change their colour

and we'll abandon the games we used to play

but the manner with which we'll do things, will stay the same

we had today, but today turned into yesterday

and yesterday clings in the back of our minds

like a faded memory and now we're questioning its existence

for everything has an expiration date

        we were never kids first,

always trying to put ourselves in the roles only adults were allowed to play

from primary school, to a college, to a job, to a house, to a home...

years later we forget how to keep wonder

where is the force that glued our hearts together?

words of freedom hang on the wire through wind and snow

birds whispering their songs at sundown

the winter of our hearts has passed

many people have left the train

many love stories never reached a beginning

         or have lost their spark

many new lives have begun while others have lost their writer

remaining ones searching for a sound mind and a place to hide

as the time capsule swallows us into its depths

         are we out of our minds?

future us dropping past into the sea

the dead town stealing away tomorrows

slaves refusing revolution for comfort and injustice

who's driving this train anyway?

there's a promise of a treasure on a map

we're running like mad men to the hills

so we can fight for the little we managed to hide as our own

in a seemingly small playground we are building future

not out of rocks and stones, but with hearts and bones

and we wonder what kind of shadow our lives will cast behind

.

Poem: Growing

cells are not the greatest of liars

they document everything,

conscious or unconscious,

things we'd call waste

this body has been caged by my thoughts

beaten by words,

judged by penetrating eyes,

scorn by social media,

reshaped by depression,

extinguished.

fallen,

a back that got strong from all the rising up's

there is a strong taste of desire

to bloom

eager to pull all the weeds

so our gardens would over shine

the mess we've made

there's something growing inside

I felt it move today

the gentle sound of a seed bursting

and small roots caressing

jumping through the shadows of the mind

I do not know what it feeds on

and if it's been here all this time

waiting for a perfect moment

to change the strings of my voice

blossom needs a spine to stand

mine has been long time in the making

leaves are pushing on the stitch

from the inside

oh, wait, I think I'm gonna sneeze!

Poem: Two lovers lost at war

Feather fell down in a dusky lighted room,

with enough sound to be noticed,

but not enough to draw attention.

The same manner in which I’ve been

opening and closing doors.

Dreams we make up as kids,

'cause later we forget how to dream.

Even if they are taken away from us,

it is important to create them.

Otherwise today has no more tomorrow.

All that we know, we can capture in a glimpse.

Our expectations are greater,

but they blindfold us.

The flowers on the window

and candles at the door.

A ballet dancer as a dandelion puff,

bending the arms as if to speak;

in a storm that comes and goes

as if with the waves.

Standing on a floating feather,

with an angel weeping at the shoulder.

We haven't been running,

yet we have always been racing,

since the day we were born.

We shed our skins and call it dust.

Fear finds the smallest of cracks

and it permeates through.

Growing bigger in an anxious mind.

There is still place to leave a trace.

Curiosity takes you a step further

and awards you with undiscovered lands.

Remember the feeling when your heart

just can’t take it anymore?

Chasing eternity through the golden summer fields;

there is quite enough light to hope,

for two lovers lost at war.