red painting

She was an artist. She painted line for line; stroke for stroke; more and more to the picture on her arms. She had done with such percision – soft and harsh; deep and light. They all added to the masterpiece she was creating.
It was to die for.
And to top it all off, finish what she had started, she drew the final line. A last pop of colour. A splash of red running from her hand down the arm. As she was done she signed it with just one tear.

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the lies I have made

It is all that is left me – that and the mere image in my mind, although I fear that it is corrupted by the loving eyes of the child that I was. Unknowing of what I saw I took it all in and painted it in different colours – protecting me from reality. For it was raw and I could not take it.

– just a relict of my past

a reminder of who I was

and who I am

the little coffee shop

I do love this place so – I love being here in this tiny coffee shop. I believe it is the familiarity and safety it has become to me.

In the morning it is so calm. There’s a coziness in that calm – like it is calming my mind and I can just be, sit there and gaze through the light windows. I find myself looking up from the printed words I brought with me and watch all the people walk by – more so rush by. So few ever seem to walk with smiles on their faces. Never seem to be content just because. In the afternoon it’s a hustle. Voices tangled with laughter in the air – seem to become one bulk of happiness in the heads.

Infective

Like someone dancing in the streets.

Like a child’s laughter.

Like a strange melody.

They make me smile.

Genuinely.

a nation of flowers

She found herself in a sea of beautiful flowers in all kinds and shades. She’d kill them to only steal their beauty for a little while and admire the dying glow they shed. It felt like they realized slowly what had been done to them – only slowly, when it was far too late; when they slowly faded with the growing realization they were lost. In denial first, slow acceptance grew until they’d fall apart as strange ignorant eyes adored them.

Maybe flowers aren’t all too different.

-a nation of flowers

a bad habit

I am always the first to leave

why stay if I am nothing but a shadow

– nothing but the sidekick in an awfully shallow movie

why stay when nothing is holding me back

– nothing but the feeling I ought to

why stay when every second I do, reveals how badly I wish to leave

staring down the clock

the circle on the wall that is growing

slower every second

and every time I leave

every time I rush out

disappear like the shadow I am

I am left all alone

with the realization how badly I wish I stayed

I wish I wanted to stay

but I don’t

 

 

shadows don’t stay places

they leave in silence

when the sun’s come

tiny horse shoe

I have a necklace – it is a tiny horse shoe. The little golden thing was given to me on my 6th birthday when I had just started school. And to make me strong for all the new and unfamiliar they told me it was a lucky charm so I should wear it when I felt like I needed that extra piece of luck. But within the same breath they whispered to choose wisely because the luck – it would fall out upon me, but only once.

And so my eyes beheld this little miracle in wonder ever since.

It’s been 13 years and I found a box with a tiny necklace inside. I meant to save my wonder all this time. A wonder – as tiny it might be – would be such a terrible thing to waste. Truthfully I never dared putting the necklace on to wear it anywhere and make me strong, for I never dared to have the bit of saved luck spill.

Ever since the whispers the golden pendant has been locked away, in hope it would save me one day.

 

-and I am wearing it now.

framed walls

Weakened and confused she walked through rooms paved with frames. Squares with faces that grow less and less familiar each time she got up. The resting eyes on her, she knew they were supposed to evoke some feelings – honest emotions – in her. But nothing came flooding in. Nothing but concern and shame. The comfort of having them at the finger tips, at one glance whenever she pleased outgrew the appreciation. Like a flower blooming everyday, day and night, it lost it’s spark – grew part of the white walls she was hiding in. In the sea of familiar squares there was only one that seemed to be ever changing. The one always staring back at her, always mimicking her every move, always revealing the mess she was.

the younger child

the worse my family has it

the harder he fights back

the more they throw phrases at each other

– phrases just on repeat

the sadder the voices get

the more exhausted the eyes are

the further the guilt grows

the more I try to

soften the fall

bring back silly talk

entertain to make the minds forgetful

help for two

make up to make guilt and blame vanish

but what they lay on themselves

is not easily deceived

I might paint it over for a moment

but it stays engraved in their minds

and I cannot fix that

painted hands

She always was a mess. Her hands were always covered in paint. Sometimes the stream of colours on her arm was the prettiest I’d see all day. I always liked to imagine what she put on the canvas just by looking on the paint left in her hands. She always made a mess. Her paint covered hands brushed her all arounds and left little clues. I remember the occaisional blue strokes on her cheeks when her hair had fallen down.

A messy life never felt so wonderful.

Versunken

ein Gedicht zu Franz Kafkas 'Die Verwandlung'

Versunken

 

Klein und unbedeutend
In diesem Sein
Falle in Krankheit
-unbrauchbar-
Alles lernt ohne mich zu leben
-Überleben

Verschwinde langsam
Verblasse aus ihren Gedanken
Denn Nutzen, habe ich keinen mehr
Schwer ziehe ich sie in die Tiefe
Dunkelheit in allen Nuancen
In die sternlose Ewigkeit

Sinn im Leben erschien einst so klar
Zweifel brennen auf
Ein Feuer, das ich nicht enden kann
Eine finstere Wolke sinkt über alles Licht
Verdreht die Worte in meinem Kopf
Ich kann reden
Ich kann schreien
Ich kann erklären, so viel ich will
Keiner wird mich verstehen
Keiner wird es versuchen
Keiner wird zuhören
Ich spreche eine andere Sprache
-gar keine-

Welt grau und kalt
Ein Gemälde ohne Farben
Ein Buch ohne Tinte
Gefängnis meines bedeutungslosen Seins
Wände wachsen enger
Kein Platz zum atmen
Mein Atem verschwendet
Kann nicht mehr schwimmen
Will nicht mehr treiben
Muss versinken in der Tiefe
Verlassen diese Insel

Die feinen Linien meiner Existenz verblassen
Einsam vergehe ich
Schwach kapituliert mein Körper
Meine Worte ein Rätsel
Meine Gedanken verschwommen
Meine Seele verschwunden
Meine Augen nicht länger die meinen
Nicht länger Teil dieser Welt

Jede Hoffnung verloren
Würde ein fremdes Konstrukt
Die Bürde meiner Existenz
Meine Existenz eine Bürde
Lauter und lauter schreit meine Seele
Unsterblich in meinem Schmerz

Gedanken kreisen
Verloren im dunklen Labyrinth
Sinnlos meine Existenz
Erlösen von der Bürde meine Liebenden
-Leidenden
Mein letzter Sinn
All meine Taten so viel größer
-reicher
Wenn ich nicht mehr bin