Arhive etichete: love

Who Am I?

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Things are not what they used to be. This stereotypical phrasing starts running through my mind, once in a few months, because my inner clock has this perpetual movement of disappointment that needs to be addressed.

And when things are not what they used to be, I start looking for ways out, because there’s too much doubt and not enough peace, and I am in one piece… Still.

I need my drunken music, and my beautiful covers, and my never-ending pause… I need my lies and I need to close my eyes. I need to tell myself that stories are just stories, and souls are just souls, and this weakness in me is just another way to pass the time.

In the back of my head, on the back of my hand, things are laid out like on a beautiful, monstrous canvas… There are words and feelings and fingers that point at the ones to be blamed. My lipstick is red, my feelings are dead. I am numb, number, the numbest. Life is a list and this list is a… What?!

I have forgotten things… I love, I hate, I belittle. I want a human… To love, to hate, to belittle. Things are just moments, life’s just a dream. Who am I?

Lies

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She smiles at him, quicly batting her eyelashes. She knows stuff, but she doesn’t say a word, and why should she? Life is ok just the way it is, there’s no need in tearing up the balance. Or whatever that is.

Yes, you use old words, my friend. Your smiles are not honest, neither are mine. Time passes us both by, so I have no reason to be in a hurry.

He laughs sometimes, probably thinking he has it all planned. Thoughts of the deceit and thoughts of the lie, they are all inside his petty little brain. He thinks he’s above it all, and this war is over, because he already won it.

I keep saying the same sounds, but they don’t make sense anymore. It is just an old story, retold with synonyms. But who cares about that, when the definition was already drawn? Sounds are just a way to keep sadness away. Lies are pretty.

There is no left, no right, no sound.
All that it’s left is pain to put me in the ground.

What’s Love Got To Do With It

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What’s love got to do with it,
you keep asking in the dead of night.
I’m sick of all that fright,
and all the might,
and the taste of your bite,
and I can’t see the light.
Your tongue is whipping me,
and you can’t hear my plea.
What’s love go to do with it?

Svetlana

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Svetlana, I hated you when I was little.
You marked my boy, you bitch of brittle!
I hated you when he was lost and crying,
And when he still loved you while he was dying.
Svetlana, I do not even know you,
But do you know the damage that you do?!
I just heard your name out loud
And here you are, just like a cloud.
Svetlana, won’t you go away?
Be gone, be there, be stray.
I hate you cause I hate myself,
And I think I need some help.

The Wind

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I am love, the Wind speaks to me.
I smile and trust and play like a child, and my Wind takes me in his arms.
I am love, the Wind speaks to me.

And then there’s only silence. And love. And Wind. And I am gone in a second, because my time passes when I don’t want it to and because my time doesn’t pass at all when I want it to.

I am love, I speak to the Wind.
But the Wind doesn’t smile, nor does it trust, nor does it play like a child.
And I am left with no one to take in my arms.
In the end, I’m not even love.