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.

It's when you walk through the night, reading a book, philosophizing, listening to the sounds in your ear that thoughts rain down like ashes heavy as a rock, tempting you to write down whatever thoughts pass through your mind. the bliss of sudden poetic enlightenment.



Reading Jack Kerouac as the night dies and the city glimmers with hope. Hope of a better future forgotten in the hands of those who create it. The music drumming in my ears as I walk down forgotten alleys praying not to be discovered by cannibalistic tourists devouring everything in their way. Hopeful but pessimistic. The cig is out, the book hanging over my arm. I'm on my way. Some day I will know eternal bliss, the beauty of the void.



The day dawns in its lazy slowness. Drunkards around me trying to find their way home. Home is where your heart is, they say. But you got to find your heart first. And that ain't easy.
Waiting for the bus now. Waiting for the drunken pranksters, the rich bitches in their Gucci dresses and Italian boots. Following the very paths society tells them to. I philosophy against it, but in my core am the very same. Brainwashed to take part in this dying machine. Despising myself for taking part in this soulless, self-destructive way of life where happiness is always a coins' throw away. At least I realize it.

I hope you'll have a good day.

Berlin, May 31st, 2008

Trainstation Graffiti

Trainstation Graffiti, originally uploaded by velvetplains.

Remote on His Lap

Remote on His Lap,
Light Flickering in a Rap.
Hypnotized and Brainwashed,
The world is Askew.
Believing all they say, In a way
His Happiness is Fake

He Lives Life in a Day,
Without even Dreaming of Perceiving
The Truth Behind the Veil.
His Reality's a Baby's Smile with Malicious Intent,
As Fake as it Gets!

The Box Feeds Him,
And He Obeys.
He Is Just Another One Of Us.