A bit of purple. Like in the song we like. And then a bit of fuchsia. And even tootpaste. Like a clown. My face is like a cheetah with a million coloured spots. I walk in my pyjamas. A grotesque protest. If was an empress, these would be my new clothes. With holes, invisible but…
I like it multicoloured, autumnal, sweet. I like a bite of everything – your laughter, their meals, her dreams, my tears. I like it anti-fashioned. Forget about new features, editors, Shop buttons. Give me old-school rock and beer. I like it cocky. To kick me in the butt and make me going. Add another certificate…
I’m dying around him. Weeds suffocating my youth. No sunshine in my heart. I can’t grow when I get water from his well of pessimism. Unfortunately, flowers die.
I say “Of course” quite often. To make people happy. But the truth is that I’m off course. Made to feel unhappy. Abused by my inconsistency. Used by people. Teased by dreams. Exhausted. Unable to get sleep. About to quit. Of course, it’s just a post. Who cares I’m feeling off course.
My will is strong. Like porridge. Dripping. Drops of %. Smoke of nicotine. Like porridge. Fusion. Science. Lies. Like porridge. Messy. Tasteless. Burden. Goldilocks without her bears. Just beer.
Nightmares that make we want to sleep. Like a rock. Close but far. So in love. Desire, tenderness, fear, curiosity. A cave of passion. But I always wake up, there’s never a single kiss. Impossible to connect, like a stalactite without a stalagmite, never a stalagnate. I want to sleep. I want my vivid dreams….
Blackout. Out! But always in my heart.
The Ill Ness monster is awake. Hiding, waiting, laughing. Like all those bloody people – selfish, cold, bitter. The bites are deep, the scars are deeper. You can pay to swim with its shadow. The waters are cold and murky – like you dirty claws. Aches, shivers, glitter.
Intellectualisation. Detachment. Cries. … Laughter. Dreams. Relief. … Boundaries. One hour. What about the other 23?!
My heart is like a summer storm. Thunders, clouds, and heavy raindrops. I can feel it coming with my achy bones. I’m getting older. But am I wiser? 90, 65, 32. Who cares? I can see clearly from above the shadows of the dusty calendar hanging on my wrinkled skin. And then I sip some…