I admire your fiery soul, will to live.
Mire on fire, hardening.
Goodbye to a world we used to live in.
Dire wolf, dire mind.
A way to survive.
Sour rain, uncomfortable pain.
Goodbye to the rules we used to live by.
Goodbye to a world.
Goodbye to you.
Sångfågel har tystnat.
Men sångfågel må sjunga för alltid.
Även om dess tid är kommen låt den leva.
För utan sångfågel är vi alla ändliga.
Sometimes when I lay down to think about myself as a person there is always something making me not able to come up with an answer to why I’m such a terrible thing.
Most of the time it depends on my natural way of not being able to concentrate very well. There always seems to be something more interesting to think about or another important project to finish, like my dinner plate.
My mom used to say it was because of my “primal” instincts, and to me, that always sounded very strange and childish, at least it did when I still was in my pre-adulthood years. Because of this I had for the most part dismissed what she said and now I’m regretting it.
Though I’ve been having this monologue in my head for quite some time I still haven’t found any solution to why this is and how to solve my ever-lasting problems.
It sure is hard being a white pointer.
There are flies… everywhere.
On me, on the meat that was supposed to be served as our dinner, on the dead, luke warm eye of my great grandmother and on my untuned, maroon colored guitar.
An apocalyptic smell of disease and deterioration. Not the rot of some body but of…
…Flies.
Flies getting electrocuted and melting against the old, warm, buzzing luminous lights in the ceiling.
A nostalgic feeling fills my arteries and veins – home is once again.
Hot hot summer, where have you taken me?
Poetry and I 