Oh, to be a Dream...
So I awoke in a dream...
And all of the things that
I hear, see, taste, and feel
have already taken
the best part of me,
some I remember, yet some
I have long forgotten
and have to learn them
all over again.
Who ever said
that there was a method
to one's madness
must have been slipping
into mental illness.
Still, I go on running fast,
into the distance,
feeling out of time,
slipping from sanity,
without having
to make decisions.
Running real fast
one has no time to look back.
Still, I cry out, sometimes howl,
the demon in me indignant and enraged,
demanding war, demanding change.
And thus, I’m through with asking
questions: why -- for lies
forever linger in circles,
as I make circles around myself,
chasing that same old,
used American dream,
hurting others with my pain,
running so long on mere
caged hope for fuel,
steered by suicidal autopilot,
driven by insane laughter,
during moments I wish
I could simply cry.
A shed tear, perhaps,
all is needed
to forgive oneself and forget.
A few tears and a few lies
to escape the fear of existence.
Still, I idolize
the erotic dream -
flying over the forgotten land,
holding my lover by hand -
being told by many that I'm wrong,
when I feel right.
In love - true love -
lovers share a single soul.
The world around
is pleasure and pain.
A cliché of extremes,
my heart beats in between,
as I run wishing to fly,
always whipped by the time,
wondering whether
there are enough lashes.
Whether the idea of time
is needed at all,
when we have created so many lies
and new ways to use them.
It’s easier to self-medicate,
lie to yourself, and stay
righteously convinced
of the mass produced lie
we proliferated.
I wonder,
will you all come
at my humble request,
dressed in all white,
and sing and rejoice,
sincerely, at my grave,
placing on top, let's say,
an octagon tombstone,
which should certainly
read as follows:
“He lived to love
and He loved well,
therefore He lived.”
Still, will my deeds
will they matter at all?
I wonder… a lot of nonsense,
as I run and dream of a time
when we all have our wings,
without having to make decisions.
Will it all ever come to an end?
Does the poem ever...
when it is merely reflects
the particles of my life,
which are in themselves
particles of a broken
universal mirror.
There is no escape…
To awake in a dream
one simply goes insane.
Alas, perhaps a good lie
is the salvation…
And all of the things that
I hear, see, taste, and feel
have already taken
the best part of me,
some I remember, yet some
I have long forgotten
and have to learn them
all over again.
Who ever said
that there was a method
to one's madness
must have been slipping
into mental illness.
Still, I go on running fast,
into the distance,
feeling out of time,
slipping from sanity,
without having
to make decisions.
Running real fast
one has no time to look back.
Still, I cry out, sometimes howl,
the demon in me indignant and enraged,
demanding war, demanding change.
And thus, I’m through with asking
questions: why -- for lies
forever linger in circles,
as I make circles around myself,
chasing that same old,
used American dream,
hurting others with my pain,
running so long on mere
caged hope for fuel,
steered by suicidal autopilot,
driven by insane laughter,
during moments I wish
I could simply cry.
A shed tear, perhaps,
all is needed
to forgive oneself and forget.
A few tears and a few lies
to escape the fear of existence.
Still, I idolize
the erotic dream -
flying over the forgotten land,
holding my lover by hand -
being told by many that I'm wrong,
when I feel right.
In love - true love -
lovers share a single soul.
The world around
is pleasure and pain.
A cliché of extremes,
my heart beats in between,
as I run wishing to fly,
always whipped by the time,
wondering whether
there are enough lashes.
Whether the idea of time
is needed at all,
when we have created so many lies
and new ways to use them.
It’s easier to self-medicate,
lie to yourself, and stay
righteously convinced
of the mass produced lie
we proliferated.
I wonder,
will you all come
at my humble request,
dressed in all white,
and sing and rejoice,
sincerely, at my grave,
placing on top, let's say,
an octagon tombstone,
which should certainly
read as follows:
“He lived to love
and He loved well,
therefore He lived.”
Still, will my deeds
will they matter at all?
I wonder… a lot of nonsense,
as I run and dream of a time
when we all have our wings,
without having to make decisions.
Will it all ever come to an end?
Does the poem ever...
when it is merely reflects
the particles of my life,
which are in themselves
particles of a broken
universal mirror.
There is no escape…
To awake in a dream
one simply goes insane.
Alas, perhaps a good lie
is the salvation…