Leeches

mindless clicking

thoughtlessly tapping

fingers know the keys

like lovers addicted to each other

with faces awash in screenglow

there is nowhere left for us to go

old and bitter and cranky

a waste of oxygen

we all make mistakes

but some mistakes are art

like a bad painting
that you can't stop drawing

bad decisions are stuck to my skin

like leeches, bleeding me every day

i pull at them, but they've dug too deep in

my fat friends feeding on my misery

Are You Happy?

Every happy man hides a secret
It's hidden just behind his smile

Something dark and something wicked

Insidious, malevolent and vile

I've observed the happy man's smile

It never reaches his eyes

His eyes that are full of hopelessness

A vacant stare that bores through lies

When I walked in dark streets of this city
I often thought of the happy man

Jealous of his happiness, slightly

Could I ever do, what he can?

Maybe some of us are not meant to be

Smiling, laughing or simply happy

Because once The Fire sets in a soul

It doesn't stop till it burns it all

What use is happiness if it doesn't burn?

Like stars in the night, violent lessons learned

Fueled by fear, anger, hate and malice

Who the fuck would want happiness?

----

Every once in a while, i like one of my poems more than I like other of my poems. This one is a favorite child.

Bitter Dream

The bitter taste in mouth 

Is just a sliver of a dream

That escaped forgetfulness

Now it's a weight on my chest

Did we grow apart as I slept?
Or did we come together?

Why don't I remember?

As I chew this bitter dream

I could spit this dream and move on

By next night I'd be gone (gone, gone)
But still I sit here and moan

Even with you, all alone

So I share this bitter dream with you

A kiss of chewed, bitter destiny

My pain is now your discomfort, too

Isn't that how it's supposed to be?

Beast

A man sits on the side of the road

His head in his hands, tears in his eyes

He is not concerned with the world around him

He is just afraid of what's inside.

The beast

Sweat, the bitter stink of failure

Blood, flowing back to a dirty drain

Pain, a grin scratched in dirt

Tears, mixing with the pain

The beast

Killing all that is dead

Breathing in the dust of dreams

Swirling thoughts in his head

Silenced by the screams

The beast

When the beast looks up

Into your eyes

It knows you

Mirrors never lie

Spinning

Spinning in circles
Spinning a web
Of lies and promises
Of magic and threats

When all this falls apart
We'll pick up the pieces
Start building again
Without alternative

Going on its easy
When you're shameless
No need for a plan b
When you're blameless

Failure is just another lesson
Just another way to scream
Because the pain will never lessen
It will just crop up again

The Need for Attention.

I ask myself, is this what I was meant to do?

Every Monday is a struggle

Because we resign to our fate by Tuesday

Wednesday is a celebration because we made it to the middle of the week
Thursday is the soothing anticipation for Friday

Friday, it's almost over, the cycle of pain

On Saturday and Sunday, the days that pass by
In a blur

We drink, eat, sleep, just to forget

That there is something like excel sheets

Progress reports,
Meetings that suck the marrow of your soul

And bad coffee

Don't you dare forget the bad coffee

Because the amount of bad coffee I've drank
I could write a book about it

I don't even mind taking this poem off a tangent

To tell you how bad the coffee is

But even then I drink it every day

Because, really, the only other option
is bad tea

And that is even worse, trust me, than the bad coffee

You have to trust me when I tell you

That none of us, even the most strongest, smartest, the fastest, the funniest, the sexiest, the realest, the fakest, the modest,

Would be able to survive,

If left in a jungle island, without Wi-Fi

You can't really tell jokes to trees

If you don't get any feedback

Your crippling need for attention

Will eat you from the inside out

Wings of Fire [ Fourth Light ]

Some kind of insistent chirping that takes a hold in my head. Like a tune I can't stop humming. A popcorn shell stuck between my teeth. An eyelash  that I can't find in my eye. The ghost a memory, that I am not sure was reality, or something I imagined so hard that it became real. 

We are all mothers, in this way. We bring things into the world, we nurture them, we care for them, we look forward to their future. But sometimes, just sometimes, mothers have to eat their young and it's always a bitter experience, even if the survival of an idea hinges on it. 

A life for a life is the trade. We become what we hate most. There can be no running away from that. If you don't remember that tune, the tune will remember you. The ideas that you eat for survival, their ghosts will haunt you. The only good thing to do with an idea is to make a kite of it and fly it high and when it reaches up to kiss the moon, let the fucking thing lose, cut the cord, let it wander into the world. 

If the idea really was yours, it will come back to you, on wings made of fire.

--

Read fast. In one breath, if you can.