On her

She there

cutting her own hair

in front of the mirror

while I watched it fall

like leaves in autumn.

.

Simple as that

there

I no longer feel the solitude of winters.

On a rabbit hole

The fox cornered the rabbit.

Well,

I shall finally slay

such fluffy thing.

.

Today?

.

What do you mean?

I’m predator,

you prey.

.

You’re right,

I totally agree,

but why can’t we be different?

.

Come again?

.

Why am I the one slain

at the end of this day,

and you…

On five minutes

That moment

between lucidity and a dream

when I find out the source of my stupidity

and

lazy

I let it slip from me

I need five minutes

please

It is all the time I need

On conversations

We talk in so many different ways that the words feel set aside.

Let them feel it, as long as I am by yours.

On choking

I choked when writing

My fingers among spasms

The letters stuck in the brain

(I could not inhale 

nor exhale them)

Red eyes afraid

Nails in purple

Skin became pale

Then emptiness and grief

A brief horror

and my inspiration was dead again

On sand

“What are you doing?”

“Poetry.”

“What? But you’re just grabbing a bunch of sand.”

“So?”

“This is no poetry!”

“Not yet, but just wait for the wind to blow.”

On the dark

onpeople:

She blocked every single ray of light trying to invade her room.

She painted the windows black and covered them too.

She filled the gaps with plaster from dusk until noon.

Then 

she started her art, her real paint, with red, yellow, and blue.

She painted it perfectly, the prettiest thing one could do.

But lost in darkness, no one would see it.

Just like her,

just like her.