I got to find a way to make you feel.
Make you understand me.
Just be true.
I’m going to find a way.
There shouldn’t be sweeping pain.
I wish I could show you,
the same dull aching which grows inside of me.
There are no exits.
Only reality,
walk here with me.
I weep,
without permission.
Is it closure?
Be ready,
though still in disguise.
It’s too heavy for me.
I just wanted somebody to care.
It’s like a wonder overdue.
Your talk.
Do you know how it feels?
(2010)
I’m like a brand new piece of paper.
Never been written on.
Never been touched.
I’ve saved my paper
for the story
of your pen.
This piece of paper
is longing for the truth,
your mindful truth.
There is a man without a face,
a faceless man without a name.
He’s the son of nobody-knows-whom,
the father of no one.
He talks rather slow,
but indeed he is a man.
He is somewhat like cellophane,
no one will take notice of his appearance.
He writes his name in invisible ink,
writing lines on the paper which will never be seen.
And as the years go by
he will just sink further still.
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