the things you've said are written on pieces of paper
clipped on the wire like washed laundry
somewhat heavy and somewhat fresh
they seem like ghost letters pleading to stay
- the way they flutter in the wind
when we sit in silence about the truth
our lives are long car rides into the unknown
our dashboards collecting scent of our days and nights
there it all lies, life in its’ splendour
among billions, my life is just a whisper
but will it ever carry its' own voice?
for I am a writer without a name on the run
if every road leads from birth till death, what's more important,
- the ride or the road?
convinced myself believing my greatest pain
was being misunderstood; in truth,
it was never being heard at all
if we exchange our keys will our hearts finally be quiet?
sometimes we fear where others will lead us to
the walls we build are not high enough
people will climb them or break them down
in the end it only matters what will make better memories
- those you once loved
do they hold a tombstone in your heart
or are they like butterflies who ease your breath?
living is a war, where you recognize what's important and what not
and if it doesn't change us, what's the point of living?