Thinker, Dreamer, Fighter

A stormy force and a restless horse


At some point, these three and more I didn’t mention.

They come together through an invention.

In a trial for intervention.

Prevention?

Then they will unite and fight.

The thinker will know their gift to love and use.

The dream is the hope and gives all the fuel.

The worker won’t laugh badly nor will they refuse.

The fighter within them – a mighty force on sight.

The dawn, the evening, an hour or second thought.

What are they worth without a friend you cherish?

Not the things alone, but those who fought,

Before you and through pain and time did perish.

A king, a countess, a smith, a storyteller.

A peasant, a bandit, an alchemist or dweller.

Why can’t they be friends, can’t live together?

Was there a reason or just someone’s feather?

Writing down the rules of life.

Like a puppet player or queen of a hive.

Was it fear or good intentions?

Is it us or is it just me who mentions

The last hope, the battle for freedom?

It never happened in my dreams.

All what was were endless screams.

The fire and water make wonders.

So why do we try to divide us all the time?

And then the dreamer and the thinker are the same.

When all the dreams lost their shame.

Not a thought about gold or fame.

Not about failure or blame.

Wonders are not worth to be seen alone.

Neither in cold streets nor a mighty throne.

Isn’t under our blood and skin the same bone?

Cells created in mother’s womb, long done.

Sometimes I am jealous of twins or triplets and such.

At least they have each other and might be in touch.

Or they are like fire and water or a gun powder hutch.

The surface and the hidden – they always seem too much.

But wouldn’t together, these thoughts disappear?

Always this pain, always this fear.

The empty smiles, sometimes a tear.

What are we doing here, my dear?

I don’t like this game, this deadly jokes.

When people eat and heat and zip on cokes.

The morning sun, the evening shimmer.

Where is the golden and warm glimmer?

Not for the eyes (alone), but for the heart.

Left as a bleeding, beating shard.

My words bring sorrow, don’t they?

They bring cold fear and frustration, don’t they?

I spread madness and resignation, don’t I?

I am meant to die, won’t I?

Oh would I have never spoken, wrote a word to you.

About all my fears and hopes without a clue.

Am I a monster, a healer, what even is true?

Does it matter between me and you?

Since I know that I don’t want to die.

Since I know that I could always cry.

But often my skin and eyes are dry.

And everyday I feel as if I lie.

Nothing more I wanted.

To make everyone happy and happy with them.

Nothing more I wanted.

But I first had to hide and now scream at them.

Nothing more I wanted.

To see me grow and them and celebrate each other.

Nothing more I wanted.

But they broke me and also my mother.

I didn’t want all this.

When I tried to escape into painful bliss.

I didn’t want all this.

Broke myself and we broke each other.

I didn’t want all this.

Endless lines of words.

Telling the same in every letter.

Even the disturbing sounds and cords.

Would be worse without or maybe better?

Change is confusing for those who never wanted.

And now I walked in with a seed I planted.

Didn’t respect the closed doors and borders.

Against the will, against the orders…

I wondered why everyone feels alone and still.

As if they all wanted to die or maybe get ill.

As if they all tried to protect one another.

Tried to give or ignore and didn’t bother.

Why is it important where you came from or are?

It might be important to find your own strength.

But not to limit or kill or torture with angst.

Is it the life, is it the lies, is it the fear or what we are?

An actor is just someone who gets paid to play.

But what do we and why do we pay?

Aren’t most of us acting throughout the day?

This isn’t good, this isn’t the way.

We were scared to speak.

We thought we were too strong or too weak.

What if we were friends some time ago?

Or just meant to be here, just now?

Forever more like golden ore.

And yet just shining in darkened rooms.


You write the same.

Only write sad and crazy things.

I do that… But is it?









Stay safe and sound.

Because I can’t.

Not anymore.

💜

What if I am doing wr…?