Sometimes all I want to do is scream, break stuff, breathe. Sometimes I cannot break free from this hold life has on me. Sometimes all I want to do is run away. Go some place where no one knows me. Pack the few belongings that I need. And go.
You can come. Of course. I am not running away from you. Run with me, I want nothing more. Let’s leave everything behind us. Leave all the BS, all the falseness, the politics, the scheming, the strategies, the backstabbing, the fear. Let’s go.
Let me keep this You and me Meeting under the blankets Just feeling happy Being exactly where I want to be Outside of the Shadows chasing Me in here I will hide you In all the places We never went
Somehow, these days, all my words seem to come out boxed in these concise, small containers. I call them poetry. You may call them ramblings. The words, they come to me, line up in front of me and make their presence known. I wrap them up, type them down, they get away from me and it is done.
So when that stream hit me, while the warm water was still running down my back, I knew I had to get out as quickly as I could. So I jumped, dried and ran, dangly bits dangling under the towel I draped around my clackity bones.
Now, here I am, trying to get these words on the screen – while my hazy gaze can still discern them (as long as I wear my reading glasses and I keep the laptop close enough I can do it) – as fast as I can, editing be damned (don’t worry, I’ll give it a once over before I’ll actually put this up on the blog).
And just as quickly as it started, it stopped. Halted. Lay dead. Became deceased. Like the parrot. No way to glue it back to its perch, no point. It would only fall down again.
Oh, but the rush. It felt nice. Really nice. I haven’t done this in a while. Is it like riding a bicycle, you think? Is it? Haven’t done that in a while either.
I like to hide behind the lines [zigzag through the spaces and] dance, tiptoe between the commas and hopping over periods all by myself in this world of words, all true or lie, all
Feel like I should write something Put some words down at least Even though it is late already And I have been working all day, Till now – There, I did it
Van Gogh was hard of hearing, Lost sight of what was what I see the stars but I can’t smell The blue air, as cold as ice cubes Clay sticking to my bones from Digging for potatoes, buried Way too deep, so tonight I won’t Set the table, I will eat out In the wretched town below, where I wouldn’t want to be found dead
Staring back at me The bags under my eyes Tell me, I let time treat me Like shit, everything In front of me, always a little Out of reach Seconds left, I jump
Twan is here 