And when it starts raining,
you know it will not stop any time soon.
It grabs you, the feeling
of being alive -  but how long for?
A second, a minute, a day,
a week, a month, or a year?
The tide will turn, you will change.
The raindrops will dance in the puddles,
like nothing else has ever mattered.

And when it starts raining,
you know it is time to say good bye
to the places you have visited
and to the all things that have kept you alive.
And even now, it feels like
it is a beautiful day.
For what does it mean to be alive,
anyway?

Falling,
falling has never been easier
than now.

Falling,
falling has never been more pleasing
than in this very moment of time.

Leaving
everything and everyone behind.
Getting rid of
this heavy burden of eyes.

The waves
crashing into rocks, I will let them die.

Falling,
falling has never been easier
than  now.

Rain, rain, rain and more rain,
my prayers were all in vain.
Maybe gods drink too much wine,
which then turns into water,
and then we curse the wet weather.
Some kind of anti-miracle.
It will never get hotter.

In a mirror, we always look older
and we believe that it lies.
We blame it for every wrinkle:
Okay then, you lie, but why?!

How rude of mirror to do so,
like literally in the face!?
We give it so much attention
and what in return? Disgrace!

Or perhaps we do look older
indeed, and it doesn't lie.
Perhaps we lie to ourselves
and maybe we know well why.

I have tried to quit writing
many times,
but I couldn't.
Even if I could,
I wouldn't.

I have been writing
since I was twelve.
Asking me to stop
is like asking me
to **** myself.

Rivers run,
and I let them take me with them
to the ocean. 

 Poets write,
and I follow their thoughts,
for they know the way out of the darkness.

Flowers bloom,
and I sigh along, escaping for a second
 the cold hands of death.

The stars shine; they offer their light as a warm shelter
for my frightened eyes. 

Painters paint, and my invisible hands are holding 
an invisible chisel.
Only the colours can tell our
stories.

Birds fly,
and I am holding on to their
feathers; they lose them sometimes, but never on purpose. 
 
Death takes,
and I don't try to stop her from taking,
for she turns back the hands of time. And it means
my salvation.

Time to embark on another journey
through the islands of words, avoiding
dangerous pitfalls and **** the desire
to look back, knowing well what it means.
And no one wants to go back to the square
one, to auto-da-fe everything what has
made us. We strive for engagement with
the light—the mother of all lights. The source
of inspiration, the fuel, and the weapon
against the darkest nights spent waiting
for something, knowing that it will never
come. Knowing is evil.

Another day, a mission impossible to complete.
Whether the apple has been eaten, or no,
we would still be dripping this light
on our journey to the unknown.