What am I
A creator, a thing or
Just an idea
Do I exist
Or am I
Just dreaming?
Incarnation
Eleven
Why was I ever here
Was there any meaning
At eleven we always go to heaven
Contradiction in terms
Which is perfect for propaganda
Confused overused poet writing
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Creative Silence
Freedom to be heard
Silence is a pleasure
Among all the noise
We cannot listen
To much for meaning
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My Song
For a long time
I tried not to get involved
Avoiding conflicts
Believing that things
Would work out anyway
They did not do that
The bad people continued
Their way
Since no one stood up against
Them life went on
And in the end
I lost my self
My will to live
My sense of living
Eating pills did not
Solve but maintained
Things as they were
So here I am alone and old
Soon gone
This is my song
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Language of The Trees
We live in a noisy
World, everyone scream
Around you
Making big dramatic gestures
Meaning nothing or very little
To hear and see the miracle
Look down
Bend down
To the ground
Listen with your ear
To the ground
Learn the language of the trees
They will be your best
Friends
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Morning
Listening to the world
Even here in the north
It makes noises
The darkness still being
Here
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