I always wanted to leave the dead womb
at least for a second,
and see the Light, and feel Its warmth.
I always wanted to know how it is to be alive for a day or even an hour.

I always wanted to feel the life blooming inside me like a flower.
I always wanted someone to call me their child,
and to give me name, which would protect me from exile.

I always wanted to forget the past, or at least fill it
with something less visible, less alive.
I always wanted to be able to
exist without the constant tilt of time.
No, the senses lie - I have never wanted to die.

To escape the never ending desire to taste the fruits
from the garden of Hell.

I never wanted to be forced to leave,
for there would be no place to go, I am afraid.

Sunday morning.
A fragrant storm  
in a coffee cup.

I am the best thing
that has ever happened to

me.

Sadly not, I won't be here tomorrow,
I'll be somewhere else, someone else.
though I'm not talking about different life,
and I'm not talking about same old death.

I am talking about time that is timeless.
I am talking about placeless place.
About some kind of Hell-free Heaven,
some kind of greener grass Universe.

I'm not talking about having a choice,
or some signs of hope that'd be showing,
but about clocks like broken toys,
and maps like some nursery drawings.

I am packing my stuff - it's not easy:
been unpacking things my whole life.
Feels like turning the course of dry river,
or the blood painted hands of  time.

**** the happiness, **** the sorrow,
no more heartful and dreadful a-roving.
Blind man's shadow - my guide I will follow.
Only future me knows where I'm going.

Have you forgiven them yet?

The moon,
for it gives you out no secrets.

The stars,
for their beauty
which often hurts your eyes.

The sun,
for it never dies, unlike us.

The dead,
for their silent smile.

Have you forgiven them yet?
I ask

myself.

Skyscrapers look at them from above,
the man-made devils and the man-served Gods.

Dots in the streets - they have turned into ants,
they will not know that they've lived or died.

Skyscrapers shelter their deepest fears,
their human feelings, erased, strangled, killed.

They make *** only to get rid of lust.
They don't think of the future, they don't know the past.

This big city mess - their holy mass.
The ants will vanished, skyscrapers will last.

You said: Wow, I think you are poet.
But I don't think,
I already know it.

You asked: Does it mean
that you date a lot of women
and smoke a lot of dope?
I said: Nope.

You kept asking:
So what does it mean!?

It means I write love letters
to my heroine.