It will be fine
in the end I guess.
That’s life,
right?
Strange how comfort gets disturbed
when I get disturbed by comfort.
Even though I may admit it,
I won’t act it.
I’m somewhat like a book,
I won’t work until I’m opened up.
One thing is,
I will not apologise for my art.
Jealousy.
A disease.
A disease to one’s flesh.
To one’s mind.
To one’s thoughts.
To one’s body.
Infiltration in one’s trust,
making believes of what maybe is not.
A wrapped up infection.
Sets in like a storm.
Obtaining the infection by one’s fresh air,
manipulate one’s faith of what could be.
In the lack of answers,
when one’s being short of trustworthy reply
on what’s ought to be denied,
we maintain the obscure fear
by longing for what we cannot achieve.
A stroked becoming of one’s addiction.
(2004)
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