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Showing posts from July, 2017

Worn off

Another day and nothing happens.
My ears echo, I'm drowning in deep waters and I die.
This is how I die.
With every second my heart beats slower and my dreams stretched far away start running from me. My dreams, abandoned, worn off, pissed off, reject me. They stick up their noses, they won't talk to me.
This is how I die.
In crowds and constant noises of conveyor belts for fifteen hours in a day that only lasts another second and I wait, for rest.
My dreams, worn off. My jacket, worn off. My soul... crushed under the conveyor belt.
This is how I die.

Stained

Food chewed yesterday still sticks on his lips.
Beans, meat, bread,
Something like vomit between his front teeth.
His breath smells like spices
and cigarettes.
His mouth staining
her dishwasher liquid skin.
His mouth, recounting
last night's stains on soapy sheets,
to his rotten food mouthed friends.
Beer, laughter, curse, curse, so much cursing...

Their mouths
stain
our washed up names.

Just a day...

Her bed is a warm home made of duvets and pillows that were once clean and fresh. But today she cannot be bothered. Clothes thrown everywhere, but who needs clothes. Who needs clothes.
There is no food in the fridge, but there are chocolates on the side of the bed. They have been stepped on, but they're still good to eat in the short moments when she's awake. There's tears falling lazily, unnoticeable. Her nose doesn't even wrinkle up, her skin calm and frozen under leftovers of a full face of make up from three days ago.

The statue on Sunny Hill

It's always cold on the streets of Sunny Hill, where the voice of the begging child is muted by large cars that come from all sides in an unspoken rule of chaos.
It's always lonely.
People warm up near expensive fireplaces and take their cars to work.
They don't need the sun in Sunny Hill.
The city lights they can see from marble balconies as they smoke a cigarette or two shine better in the dark, the view is breathtaking. Warm coats, cold is not an issue on Sunny Hill.
But the begging child sits alone, in corners, hoping for some food, warmth, or maybe a golden coin.

There's only cars on the cold streets, and a statue of a poor child, admiring the marble balconies of Sunny Hill.