What it is.

It's nonsense

says reason

It is what it is 

says love

It's adversity 

says calculation

It's just constant pain

says fear

It's hopeless

says insight

It is what it is 

says love

It's ridiculous

says pride

It's reckless

says prudence 

It's impossible

says experience

It is what it is

says love.

Compass 

See?
You're standing still
Me too, because I'm tired.

Even though we slept
again for half a day last night.

Where the day went?
You don't know.

We're missing a wise granny
that can tell us how to move on
and why we have to stand still here.

We're tired. The day is lost
an searching without a compass 
seems futile.

How do you make a compass?
I'm too empty to be creative
and you're too stubborn for
technique.

Okay, sweet dreams then
and lets hope for something,
maybe something for tomorrow.

Today?

A part of me thinks that everything that has been done to me
can be washed away with a dash of bleach.
But I also know that this isn't true.

The day before yesterday a toddler stood on my doorstep.
He said he was cupid.
I looked at him for about three seconds 
and slammed the door.

Yesterday I drew a smile on the bathroom mirror with lipstick
just to see how it would look.

A part of me thinks that everything that has been done to me
can be washed away with a big gulp of vodka.
And I also know that this isn't true.

But please, don't tell anyone.
Stopping is my only other option
to continue with something.
Maybe not with the here and now, but still.

Honestly:
You caught me by surprise.

Spilled ink

I have experienced it a lot:
the death of that what could not  die.

For a child that's its father.
But it can also be:
meaning
that shelters 
against the great
indifference

laying outside and
without waiting
waits, 
threatens
without threatening;
sneaking
and trickling 
like silt water
in the one who drowns

The book of nature 
spreads open
with the speed of light:
the letters turn out to be murky clouds
gas and spilled ink

Where is God in language?

Sometimes
I think
I can read.