Simple, wrong solution

There’s one thing worse than a problem with no solution –
There could always be a simple, wrong solution.

We know not to go grabbing strangers on the street,
But when someone’s already holding your hand,
Nobody teaches you the effort of not curling your fingers in
And clinging to that unexpected lifeline.
Nobody tells you about the pain
Of drowning, mouth closed, while dying of thirst.
Nobody quite understands, until they suddenly do,
How it is to have no refuge from the darkness.
You go running in your house and barricade the door;
It’s not quite that my problem already lives inside,
But that I have to open the door and invite it in
Day, after day, after day.
And I’m not sure if I’m instead waving my sanity goodbye,
But I guess that only leaves more space for guests
So won’t you join us for dinner?

But I couldn’t

There is beauty in the world

The sound of crickets in the middle of night,

The silver linings reflecting the light,

The taste of grass after pouring rain.

I just had to let go of the pain

And let my back straighten, my head rise,

I just had to open my eyes

And see the magic in action.

I had to do but a fration –

I just had to extend my hand

And wait until the miracles land.

I knew all this, how little I had to do.

But I couldn’t. Not without you.

Should bes

Should bes, could bes, would have beens,
Big jumps from perceived virtues to actual sins,
More inertia gathering each passing day
Until you forget you should always have a say.
Mountains change, let alone people,
What has once been may not always be equal,
And nobody ever guarantees on timelines,
The only thing you really have is present signs.
Vague promises kept nobody warm at night,
There’s no right time to start putting things right,
Circumstances don’t make valid excuses
When people, instead of prevention, learn their uses.
The more you gave, the more you’ll feel like giving,
Surely you can’t throw it away on one misgiving,
And the gain should be coming any minute now,
That’s how things are supposed to work, anyhow.
But sometimes, sadly, the gain is the lesson
And not an act of some great concession.
Poor little thing, you should know no promises hold
When life is involved and lets fate unfold.


You’re just tired.
You used it to explain a thousand things,
A quiet, ashamed apology for your mood.
And people accept it. Sometimes.
Once or twice, and they have dubious looks.
They don’t understand how honest you are,
That those are your truest words in a while.
You’re tired. You’re so tired
That sleeping 20 hours straight
Just leaves you yawning in the afternoon
With a slight dread to go to bed
Because you know how much time you wasted.
You’re so tired that all things look bleak,
Tasteless, colourless, fundamentally untempting
And motivation comes only from stubborness,
And you run on ‘it’s going to be over soon’
Long after you forgot what the ‘it’ is
And what is supposed to come after.
You’re so tired that spending more energy
Somehow becomes the less effortful choice,
So you run instead of walk, laugh instead of smile
For the simple reason that you don’t know
The formula for the true thing anymore
And simple things reveal wrongs too easily.
You’re tired. You’re so tired
That you forget you’ve been through it before,
And you forget that you know how it ended
And that you know how to be kind to yourself
And give yourself a hand up and a break
Because there are pills to take against the pain
But fractures still have their own timeline
And neither bones nor hormones listen to man.
You’re just tired.


I loved the world to die in flames;
I loved it, without face or names.
Its eyes of darkness cast on me,
I loved them, for they couldn’t see.

I loved the roses that were dying,
I loved the children that were crying.
Each and every drop of tear,
I loved it, for it wasn’t clear.

Why do we love all that is broken?
Why do we love what can’t be woken?
It is just a dream of ours,
That we’ll be buried with those flowers.

Toy with strings

You could be a toy with strings,
To know nothing that it brings.
Pointy hat to bring forth smile,
Fretting grin to seem more vile,
Ripping laughter out of tears,
Spreading joy or washing fears.

Yet all you see in your bright act,
Taking feelings as a fact,
Turning soul into mechanics,
Heart of wood to all of panics.
Strings to lead both foot and hand –
Differences can’t help blend.

Your black eyes make all the show;
If you could yourself to slow,
You’d see how this doesn’t matter –
Not the smiles, not all the flatter,
When you don’t have heart to feel,
When your joy measures in skill.

Tell me, broken wooden puppet,
How you’d love to leave your trumpet,
Get out of your cowboy boots
And stay still till you grow roots.
‘Cause inside, all lead by strings
Yearn the peace that just rest brings.

Clueless pain

I sometimes envy you, my dear,
For never seeing things too clear.
I enjoy your childish pain,
Worrying when there is no gain.

Yes, I pity when you’re hollow,
But I wouldn’t jump and follow.
I got out, and I am proud.
Just if silence won’t be loud…

I do get to feel alone
On my higher golden throne.
Yes, you hurt, how won’t I know?
But it’s just you who thinks so.

It’s so innocent to suffer,
Trying to seem a bit tougher,
Hiding it but carrying such,
This is what I like so much.

It might hurt to hear rumors,
Hating them just like some tumors,
But it’s so nice, as it means
You don’t want there to be scenes.

It’s so clueless to worry
When they hurt, not feeling sorry,
Don’t feel hurt, ’cause they don’t care
Who you are and who they dare.

You are doing nothing wrong,
You don’t need to keep so strong.
And if they laugh, they will forget,
It’s just fun or just a bet.

But I love it, clueless pain,
Stormy hope, shining through rain,
Standing stress and horror mount
‘Cause you want yourself to count.

No one does. But I won’t tell;
Would hate it if your dreams fell.
And you count to who should matter,
Whose friendship won’t ever shatter.

Black boxes

There’s a vault of boxes in the back of my mind,
Many black boxes that within keep confined
All the pain, and the fear, the tears,
Rows building up over years and years
Out of the things I needed to push aside
So I’d keep taking the world in stride.
It might not be healthy, but it’s usually simple
To brush away things like a wayward wrinkle –
It rarely happens, like it did for this one
That they want to fight back, and then try to run.
It might take a while, stuffing it in place
But one way or another it’s fitting the case
It makes the other boxes restless, however
As they brush their ashes and struggle like never.
It’s just a little earthquake, nothing too tough,
It only can make the days bleak and nights rough.
But when it stops, nothing would have broken at the seams –
I’ll just laugh louder for a while to cover the screams.
It’s not sadness, exactly, you see in my eyes.
It’s more like emptiness, for when the lids rise
I don’t have the time to pick through the things
That go in the boxes before I close the springs –
I’d rather end up locking away bits and pieces
Than discover that one of the boxes misses.
You might not understand why this is such a pain
It should be a thought easy to unravel and reign
The problem is that some boxes carry a glimmer,
Something that makes them riot and simmer,
Because, you see, their nightmare is hope
Rather than things you’d hang by a rope.
It’s the most terrible thing to fight against –
For everything else you’re angry, incensed
But hope, when things shout, knows how to sing,
And it makes it impossible for me not to cling –
Instead of fighting its restraints, knows to soften
And makes me break my own nails on its coffin.
So pray for me. Pray that, for a while
You’ll forget you’ve ever seen me smile,
Just until I find other things to smile for
Until I know I have the strength to not open that door.

I tried

I sometimes catch myself with thoughts
Of how to untie the knots
Hurting, tight, of my own dreams
That end never how it seems.

My hope has this certain habit,
Some wild pleasure to cohabit
With unceasing failure
That it always does conjure.

So I find myself with hope
When my mind fails to cope
That it all ends in disaster;
That at least it all ends faster.

Is it normal, this betrayal
Of my destiny, yet frail?
Is it normal to can’t tell
If you want all to end well?

Or you’d rather it all fails
All, from whole into details.
But I wonder, is it worth
To choose between death and birth?

I would rather let unwind
All, and leave in peace my mind.
And to those who say I lied
I will say: at least I tried.

Is It My Fault?

Even though you hide, I know you cry, I know you hurt.
Does it help? Does it ease the pain, blaming it on me?
I let you down, you told me so; I wasn’t worth.
Had I ever claimed to be? Had I asked a thing from you?
Yet, it is my fault, your broken heart. How so? And why?
Dragged you down from Heaven. No? Broken your world.

But, dear, had you ever heard me cry, blaming sins on you?
I crushed your heart. You crushed mine back.
And yet, pain never justifies. It never gets even.
You failed me. Oh, how you did! I sinned. But weren’t you
My better self? Or so I thought. But I’m the only one to blame
For thoughts. You never asked. You never claimed.

This is my fault: what I dreamt and what I did.
But for your dreams, your broken heart… they’re yours
And yours the blame. Your fault, you, foolish child, to believe.

Is it my fault, where the rain falls?
Is it my fault when an ideal dies?
Thank you. You’ve always seen me greater.
But I’m no God. I’m not almighty.
So, we can share: without your help,
I could have never let you down.

But does it matter? Do blame it on me.
I can take my faults. And still I breathe.
You’re yet too young. Too few mistakes
To learn to sin; and live.

But promise me, my fallen angel,
Promise me you will come back, one day,
Look through the blame, and ask:
Is it his fault?
And then you’ll see, it isn’t.