To The End

An insect flew over my head, I could have killed it at anytime, I decided to let it live... this makes me wonder abut life, about the sun, about the universe, do we own it? I don't think we do, we create small spheres of reality; like the one I constructed a long time ago... after a harsh winter, all that was left was this, written in an old piece of paper I could barely read:

TO THE END

as dead as a leaf
I'm hanging from a tree
where's home?
I wonder to myself while a raindrop rolls down my surface
your eye ball rolls down the hill
it stopped just to look at me
now the wind has blown us away
south, where sunny days await

ages have dried all fallen tears
winter time made you colder
but your hands still warm mine
while my skeletal body slowly dies
crows peaking a broken heart
a hollow-eyed of a divine spark
in case we get closer to the edge, I have a levitation plan
to fly all over the seas
far into the end
where nature feels regretful about us
because we streamline nonsense

Somewhere

Sometimes whenever you´re listening to music, strange things configure inside your head...
You try to write down all those disordered ideas and something appears on your page, what people call: poetry...
well this piece of mind I puke last night is dedicated to my good friend Kriszti, I hope she feels better...
well I think she´s the only one who reads this :P...



Somewhere

What sense has sense?
We will constantly construct beatiful castles that will crumble
We will see patterns in the wreckage
I was born and you were born out of the inmense chaos
I can still see you between the powder of stars,
saling between metorites...
concerned about the storm that its approaching,
wondering if your little raft will endure.

As much as we follow the compass to the north,
we are going nowhere...
We mantain the belief that we can orient ourselfs in a vast universe where there´s no up or down.
Now you call me: Error,
because even inside me, you can not find meaning,
only the sensation of an abyss that gets deeper,
and that you are afraid to look at.

You started writting down infinite series of numbers,
continuos chains with enourmous signs,
and still you can not deduct the beginning...
oh strange matemathician!
nothing is written; there are no formulas behind.
The divine language is: coincidence.
Thus, I continued traveling between dreams,
doing long meditations on each disconnection,
Getting lost inside pages with well known letters,
waiting to concide with you at a place, a dream, a date, an event...
somewhere...
inspired by: track 9
litanic mask
http://sweatingtapes.bandcamp.com/album/a-compilation-volume-1-portland

Exist

Another bit of poetry, taken from my old memories....

EXIST

im not here

when you blow air into my ears

and the rush of those beatiful sounds that i never hear before

into a peaceful and blank mind

I know you lie somehwere between my dreams and imagination

because If you where real, you would be here

the leaves fall and crash against the grass

making the ground tumble

making me feel so small

the insignificant existence and the significance of life

i cant imagine how was before cos i dont know if present is enough

the cloudy day keeps the sun out of any sight

i can smell your vanished scent mixed with the rain

and it keeps me dry

before the world comes to an end

the qniverse will tell how much it means

and all the fellings and toughts will be scattered across the space

they will become part of the universe

they will be stardust moving into someone else's mind

to reborn like us again

the story will repeat over and over again

like the never-ending side of the circle

like the infinite space and time

cos im not here

i dont exist

i created you

u created me

we are part of the same dream..

Astronaut

Astronaut

give ´em eyelids so they can dream on

give ´em stars form which they can fall off

An inifinite universe, to keep the mystery alive

humanity, well, we all need hope

I awoke feeling there was no future

while the railroad made that metal-artificial sound

i dug deep into my mind to find out: I've been here twice

the mirror is not my reflect

it's my memory, telling me the past

the moves, the big smile, now I feel I've been acting all the time

the books i've read

the poems i've write

even the songs of the hummingbird

they're just a fake interpretation...

while the helmet goes on

you feel like an astronaut ready to explore the darkest thoughts

ready to be shutted into the unknown

finally there, nothing makes sense

you see yourself talking to the wind

where have you been all this time?

plucking flowers before they get dried?

others suffering cant be feel but it can be cutted off

people think they've changed

for me they remain the same

it comes again

nothingness is ready to go

it has never existed

did you know that?