The Death of The Good Man

The frustration merges

After a long time

To strength not

Anger anymore

Crying does not matter anymore

I never asked to live here

Or even to be born at all

It is just pain and plain numbness

Humiliation and exploitation

I don’t want to save or help anymore

It is just a reason for other people

To take advantage of you

Mourning

The mild and merciful creature that created us

Did not think on love or aesthetics

Only practical matters, letting us share

Every organ for this and for that

Beauty and beastly needs combined in various ways

No sentimentality, when you are dead

No more talking, no mobile calling to heaven

A one way street with few if any coming back to tell

Sad story leaving us behind to mourn and remember

Only our resilience might save us for a while

From getting lost and meeting the inevitable end

In a bad way

Loop

Sitting in the company of quiet old men

Reading their iPhones for meaning and comfort

While the music keeps humming together

Whit the bakery’s fridge in a very in easy way

We are waiting for the time to go

The time to go to the end

The sun shines through the dirty window

And enlighten our dreams that

Are as dusty as our mind

As rotten as the worst boat you

Can find

It won’t take us anywhere but here

Catch in our own loop

Turning round and round

The end is not near just no need

For fear our hope

Here in our loop

Death Clock

The clock of death keeps on ticking

While all your problems keep on sticking

In the very end it is not so much left

Some memories, some things

And a feeling of being on the

Wrong side of history

This is forever my story

Being a loser at any time

Now it does not matter anymore

I will just look for the door

Endgame

Is life worth living

What is good life?

People struggle to survive

Dying and defying

Death

That is painful

But is giving

Strength a little bit

Again the

Cycle of life

Is being closed

End Of The World

When reaching the empty house

At sunset, hiding from the wind

This is where the memory

Of the dead are stored

Names written or engraved

In shells from the nearby

Ocean, people come here to die

It looks like a good place to

End your days in the lilac light

In a foreign country

Memories From A Broken Life

Watching the coffee drinkers

In a the chic café

The noise of people

Talking with muted

Voices

Quiet violence rushing

Into my ears

Hurting them

Memories of the terror

From earlier years awakens

Memories of torture day by day

Writing in subtle language

That do not heal the broken

Mind and heart