(I just listened to this again, while writing down my thoughts and feelings. Or whatever this pile of words means after all…)
Moods can swing,
people can cling,
repair my wing,
do your thing.
What lasts is energy,
the body as a vessel,
made of cells in synergy,
in front of your eyes easel.
Does it grow, does it shrink?
Does it change when I sink?
Does it change when I think?
Does it matter when I stink?
How should you know?
All grown up, with your bow.
All are fighting and I am low.
The world, a shity show.
You tell me, that it is me,
you tell me, that I always flee,
you tell me, that I am a bee,
you show me, that I can’t be.
All what I have seen.
All what could have been.
All what is still unseen.
And you said I am keen.
For what, if all is dust after a while?
Walking an inch or a whole mile.
Does it matter, on the deadly pile?
Beaten and divided through bile.
Songs of dreams are guiding through,
But does it matter what I do?
Even the rhymes have no more clue.
First lifting up, then beating me with a shoe.
Crying, laughing, joking, caring, cleaning, playing.
Hoping, choking, dying, drowning, thinking, wondering.
Loving, giving, vibing, listening, creating, taking, aching.
All in a room, in a house, in a village, near a forest.
Hiding away from the fast, loud and busy – to rest,
Sleeping next to my cat, while others protest,
Wishing to die, by sickness, by pest.
All the fight and tears the last few days,
they helped and so I walked my ways,
but now it seems I am the one who pays,
while the other one complains and stays.
Would I just know that nothing waits for me,
I could just go and finally be free,
maybe do what I always seemed to see,
or just not exist, or run and flee.
Each step brings me closer to the golden dream,
only to get burned and blinded by thick hot steam,
not able to stay, not able to shine like a beam,
is it a lost game or are we fighting as a team?
If only I would know these things for sure,
could be with you and find a cure,
could live and love and feel so pure,
but it always feels as if I am just a lure…
A bad joke of a living thing,
waiting for winter, while its always spring.
waiing for rain, when the birds all sing,
waiting for a rainbow, when it’s a sunny morning.
Dawn and thunder and winds are frightning.
When the animals die and the trees are burning.
I look from above, from the street wheels turning.
The water eases my sorrow, but it is spurning.
Aren’t my presence, my thoughts and works enough?
Isn’t the love I have not pure or should I be more tough?
I know I didn’t think too much of all of this in early days.
When I still did my thing and just walked my ways.
You made me question myself, while there was no reason.
Or was it the weather, the others or the season?
My decisions make me, but then all you do is break me.
My love was there for you and all you do is hate me.
Would I have been able to, I would have gone away,
So I am dead, I am cold, just meant to stay.
This morning my heart was burning full of fire.
Felt as if my battery finally charged with a wire.
Only to see it getting pulled away and to make me tire.
To leave me empty, alone back in your old mire.