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
On Writing
Ten Past Midnight
Only at night
I meet you
Briefly in my
Dreams
Talking about
Things important only
In dreams
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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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Messed Up
Writing continuously
Throughout the night
Throughout the day
I have nothing to say
We are here
Life is so good
Life is so bad
We just run through life
Repeating our ancestors
Mistakes and indisescretion
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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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Tower of Silence
For a long time
I stayed
In the tower of silence
Not uttering a word
Waiting for the birds
To eat me for dinner
But I got bored
And left for the land of
The talkative noisy living souls
That traffic this dirty street today
Talking is thinking
However bad and incomplete
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In the Process of Creative Destruction
A fear of taking the step
Fear of creating things
Around me
An illusion of presence
Still the tension is great
Who am I to do this?
Is it good enough?
Why am I disturbed
All the time
And now back to
Work
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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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Words
Putting all this energy on writing
Giving words to the readers
Feeding them with stories
And nuances that colors
The mind
Some small
Fragments of thoughts
Schibolet 