Mirroring the world
Not by free will
But by being
In it and behaving
Very erratic
The World Outside
On Writing
This is my backbone
My faith, my savior
My last stand
In a confusing world
Where the mess cannot be
Made up anymore
No it fills the entire
Room with its noise
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An Empty Wall Of Thoughts
Since a long time
I live hidden
In the mountain
Surrounded by blind people
Busy with themselves
And others not noticing
Me more than my body and presence
The tower is damp and cold
I am a bitter old man
Writing and thinking
Finding little joy in life
While the battle for survival
Goes on in the valley
Few will ever read my thoughts
Long after I am gone
Only the flowers will
In their own way
Enjoy me and my ash
Very well worth
it the price of a great price for a great price
Gone behind the lines
On the other side
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Woeful Game
Writing without
Finding any meaning
Only words
Written while being
Abused and used
For other purposes
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The Poetry
Without poetry
I might be
In a worse place
Than this
Or better
Writing opens
The mind in kind
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Party Time
I am trapped
In a corner
With a lot of introverts
Steering a the party
Like zombies
What will this be?
How was this possible
They are now starting
To observe me
Maybe the zombies
Will eat me
Before the party
Is over?
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Starting Point
There are many forms of madness
As well as a great variation of wisdom
We never know where to start
Confusion is the gift of the Creator
It is even harder to know where to stop
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Changing Stories
Creating a new narrative
Another story about myself
About the world
Forgetting that
Life moves Within its own dynamic
Very different from what we
Know and want or understand
Being a short lived flower
By the ocean
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Inside a Poem
Writing in silence
The knowledge is concealed
In a few trivial words
Meaning nothing and everything
Outside those bounds other rules
Reins
Inside here everything is different
Filled with the beauty of order and chaos
As well as the dreams and reality
Of the fragile mind
Care for it well
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Middle of Madness
To be creative is painful
It takes time and there are
Long periods of procrastination
So here we are again
A manic stroke in end of May
When the lights is on the whole night
And people getting crazy
Nervous and filled with desire
The mind is turning, round, round all the time
Feeling bad and lost
Still so creative
How I love this feeling
Still hate it
Cannot find word
These last days has been like that
Loss of words
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