The Dying Rat

Das neue Jahr hat begonnen, aber nichts neues scheint gut zu sein. Wenn man sich nicht mehr da befindet, wo alles begann, dann ist man die Stufen heruntergefallen. Verfolgt von hungrigen Katzen, Geister die dein Innersters aufreissen. 

Das Innerste ist schon zerrissen. Aber draußen möchte man nicht sein. Selbstverfremdung zum Schutz des Daseins. Braucht man eine Berechtigung? Braucht man eine Berechtigung um sich zu verstecken, um kaputt zu sein?

Mann hat sich selbst vergiftet, lächelt nur noch Illusionen. Da findet man sein Frieden, da hat man nicht verloren. 

Blackwell

The features on his face are blank,
And his memory defines moments,
With lies that are no more frank
Than purely invented monuments.
In the chaos within.

In his purpose he tries to find meaning,
To waltz in dust and continue reaching.
Fervent for construct or crowning mold,
The chaos and darkness to hold;
The Blackwell of his soul.

He clouds himself in unreal happiness.
Then a gallant rider he is to the eyes!
In truth he swims in utter madness,
Featureless in his impenetrable disguise!

He tries to see himself in the future
As a harbinger of light.
But he keeps forgetting to nurture
All that is in his might.
In Chaos
Souls Respite.

Asleep

drown yourself.
immerse yourself deep
into this life that is but a dream.
even the gods are afraid of our coming,
that is why they have kept us asleep.

my next mistake.

there is a sickness inside of me. a silence creeping up. there is no use to praying. the hollow inside of me is just too big. death would be becoming. but no option.

the future seems blank. there is no way of looking forward. when i try to see the future all i see is blackness, a black mist. there are no options, no opportunities. besides, well, maybe slavery.
looks like the emptiness inside of me will never get filled. it will be empty for all eternity. every time i breath a bit more comes out. the hole gets bigger and bigger.

the ceiling looks so beautiful in its whiteness. you stare at it and peace overcomes you.
but you cant do it for ever.

my tired eyes can no longer see forward.
my tired nose can no longer breath.
my ears keep hearing paradise,
always a step away.

what is my prison? is it the world i'm in? is it the reality i'm not sure of? the room that confines me? is it my body out of which i can't get out?
is it my brain that controls everything?
is it my brain that controls everything?

which is my prison? which holds my existence. where do i stand. where is my next step. where to will my next thoughts stray, my next deed, my next action, my next mistake.

my next mistake.

The Moth


The moth flaps its wings silently,
trapped in a densely filled train
to no-where.
Densely filled with air
and one-two obeying minds.

It flaps silently on and on,
against shut windows and locked doors,
against the fake suns in the ceiling.

Trapped, being observed serenely
through sad eyes.