föstudagur, ágúst 02, 2013
don't look at the same word for too long
i talk to myself as a kid
full of dreams and lollipops but careless
and bleed
why did you do that that other day
the kid asks,
pointing to something i might know
the blood still flows, i say
why pay attention to little details
it's like i already did my homework,
and don't want to go out and play
where's my dog?
where are my friends?
what did you do to them?
hang on i can explain
it was all for the better
it's always for the better...
right?
--
i talk to myself as an old man
visiting it's own grave
in a grey graveyard
why didn't you take the long path
why didn't you stop smoking
why didn't you accept someone
you're going to die soon
and what did you do here
he points to the grave
it says something about life
it's always about life
but what's life about, anyway
have your name written somewhere
that's important for someone
that's what you should have done
but, what the fuck, look at this,
where have you gone to,
young man
--
they all sit together in the same room
on delicate chairs
made of regret and hopelessness
and gummy bears and loneliness
and musical instruments
i sit on the ground
my heads are facing down
and they all point to me
they are angry
they point to me
they ask me all the time:
.
.
.
are you still true?
rafael at 9:29 f.h.