Scentless

In my dream

will you come to me?

Forgive me

I will bear acid on my tongue

and you will drink

No junk

My mind is pure in sleep

For that is where we meet

My breath, fresh as your baby’s

My eyes, needy as your dog's

I will conjure you in ways unimaginable

Because it is a dream

Its mine

and you, not

My dream

Isn't this where we meet?

between meals

my hands are soft around your waist
your dreams are too precious and i can't make a single sound
and i know i must wait till morning
or maybe dinner
to hear the close narrative
i do want to wake you up
or eat you up
but i wont even breathe loud
and just then i slide out of your borrowed bed
hoping i moved you hard enough to break the thread
i am looking for some company
because i drink the quiet of night like freezing water
that grabs hold of my veins
clenching my teeth, i will greet you the next day
with no air in my words
and i wont stop looking around.
i cough an innocent cough and step out.
mounding a colossal heap of things to do or delay
one more day is always required to do anything worthy anyway.
thinking about nothing else
but about all the dry and cold lands
i can think of
and your body there
dead like it is
you see nobody and nobody sees you
a dark day
and a bird from the books you read when you were little
and no sound
a dead dancing friend
and a huge mount
whose top you have seen
but never reached
some wind follows you
i wonder when will you decide to tell me what happened
how things went
who was who and the number of times you felt like killing yourself
but you see i have to wait
for the real close narrative

we will eat to the talk i always get
and thats all there is to it really.

The Last Born

Sleep child, sleep.
Tomorrow is another day
Tomorrow, you will crawl again
No need to make sense of it
futile will be your effort, your grasp
Liquid- will be the change
Stay still
Let the poison settle in your veins
Tomorrow, you will sleep again

here is a singer
with a new smoking habit of 5-6 years,

a lover of everything

dreamer for days

hater for many more

to say you are a singer

and to say that you have passion to love

to say that all you think about is everything

and everything is nothing once the day is done

a song for every mood

new jobs to fit new suits
a love, a life, maybe a love life too

few thoughts about how to make something

something from something incoherent

fewer ways to grab what's coming

and make it bend your way

i sit here smoking

wondering about singing

still sitting, wondering more about love

if it would have made life worthier of living
and give me something to sing about

love doesn't hurt

when you were away

i thought things would change

change- alright

when you were away

i knew things would change

because it had to happen

we were the way we were

because you were going

and not gone

when you were away

i thought i would change

i would be this amazing dame

..somewhere i am sure i even wore a wig

nothing quite changed

not for the best at least

and now there is this need

this incessant need to simplify

this never ending greed to express

but i can't run after these thoughts

lukewarm

it was lukewarm at it's best

i have been meaning to

its curious, how easy it has been to let this happen

i couldn't make any sort of contact

punishing myself is easier
than just a wrinkle of disappointment on your face

you embody everyone, everyone embodies you

my fear is ready to get to me and it has made its first attack

it has made me judge and treat punishment as a virtue

a virtue that will make me think and rid off my guilt at times

guilt is the oil on my feet

it wont ever allow me to enjoy a walk

and the sweating profusely is no big help

so i sing

but i disturb the peace and quiet

mirror talk

i cant do this...It just kills my process. murders it. and then spills all around. my train of thought is far gone. i was going to start with how i just try to imagine all these witty conversations, my mirror on the wall. and one situation-one fucking situation- i have not already thought about- i would give the most retarded reaction-i feel like a kid who picked up this car in a store just thinking that his mum would not buy it for him, and gets caught by the guard, in the store, yes in front of his mother- thats my expression-right there. i should not even be allowed to be 20. a 20 year old who thinks that typing kills her flow of thinking...like there are any thoughts worthy enough EVER to be mentioned. i still write because i hate having no record. which has never happened im not a very pleasant person. the fact that there is a lot of scope to edit details, planning, wondering about spellings-destroys me, my want to record. with a big hole in my head because i forget what i felt about things, my immediate reactions. writing ok maybe. but typing can be such a fraud...it is a fraud. you do it alone, before you press enter...you have all the time in the world to make it fancy. never mind. feeling right now- low life and dimwitted *fucked up teenager mode*