When is a code a code?
When you see it, write it or understand it?
Is it a code if only you can understand?
Or do you just use words and numbers in a different way than others?
Sometimes a foreign language is just your own, only backwards, maybe sometimes it seems this way. Or is it actually?
So many questions and all are answered the second you read them, probably even before you even noticed them, since you knew the answer already. Didn’t you?
I ask myself, why do I make myself an idiot each time I write, talk and try to seem intelligent. Knowing I will never ever be that thing I want to be.
What that might be you ask?
Not a deadly virus, that’s for sure.
But I won’t ever be a virus, you might think and that should make you wonder. So what is it I am, without the body?
For me the answer is clear and yet I am unsure, had I seen to many things, which made me wonder, scream and blurred my vision.
Many words for the same thing and yet it isn’t it, since the words can’t describe it. Even if they try real hard.
Free. When you replace one letter or just ignore the sound a little, you hear the meaning, we live today. Water. Two words which give me a shiver, even more or the same if you want. And together they make me I tiger, a zombie or just a sheep?
Actually I thought about another story.
A story? It doesn’t look like one?
It isn’t and I am sorry, but somehow I still was told.
So when the tiger roared, the sheep ran away or so they thought.
Didn’t they see, it was for its best, since the river turned west.
Even the stormy ocean couldn’t hold it back, like a keyboard musician the next… heck, I forgot the sentence. It would have been a long one.
When the idiot writes obviously the finest nonsense, you know the end it near. At least when you see the colorful letters, the kin and the paint.
What a world, what a world, even the wisest are children.
Luckily I am not one of them, otherwise I would have to solve some problems. Aren’t there a few left for me?
The one with the white eyebrow, longer than all the darkened brown.
Is it a matter of mite or Will, the smith.
Like the grounding father’s named it.
A smithery, where metal is hot, hammers a lot, but where is the plot?
When the hammer fell on the foot and smith was all hurt, it was then.
It was then, when he saw, the metal was him.
Nonsense! Salad! You can’t even rhyme!
Is all what the people could say about him.
Wasn’t it their words he used?
Wasn’t it their tools he formed?
Didn’t he once get tools by someone else?
And like a gold, iron and silve bar also he had to first see the oven.
Then he knew, it was hot where the real action was.
His hammer only formed, what his hands made him do.
What he saw, what they needed, what they wanted to hold.
Did the metal matter, did they ask? Was it young, was it old?
In the melting oven the firery heat, didn’t care about meat.
Nor the metal or hammer, only more, more coal.
Otherwise how should it burn?
Didn’t even fear water, from time to time.
Although in the end, it always was needed.
Even the singing blade needed a pool.
A pool of water, steamy, to cool.
English is a scary language, it makes you feel you speak a hundred and yet not a single one.
I prefer to listen, to observe and maybe hear a lovely melody.
Words scare me, and numbers, don’t mention them.
So why do I use them, why did I need them?
Is it the question or the answer which scares me most?
Probably both, since I preffer to speak when never I want.
A bad habit, silence can be peaceful, from time to time.
But even a city wakes up, when there is none of it.
Hopefully I didn’t wash your head.
But luckily you are not dead.
And may I wish, when things are good.
That we will never cheer this mood.
But eventhough it follows us or tries to get us empty handed.
See what you got and where it landed.
A penny, a golden one.