~ november 2001 ~
your sport is to kill
to kill my self-confidence
you do it 4 days a week
so awe-destroying
so soft and beautiful
you use and abuse
more quality through quantity
you keep me in a box
i'm allowed to come out when you wish so
it's fine with me
i lie to myself
i try my best
but the best is never good enough.
pain
~ 2001 ~
i'm filled with sadness
the fire is building up inside of me
like a burning house
but burning houses don't cry out for help
they can't run away or hide
fire acts as a shadow of mankinds ignorance
interpret it as you wish
but the midgit will always need his attention
and when we think back to the bleeding witches
whom fire devoured
our imagination lacks the interest
of a story told too often
so we are found soul-less
kn0cking 0n heavens door.
the battered glass door
~ 2001 ~
the battered glass door
lies on the cold floor
i try to lift it up
but it always falls down
i can give up
but then my second name might be changed
and leave me
as half the person i was to be
at the beginning of the battered glass door.
another one
~26.04.02~
i'm lying in my darkened room
thoughts are straying around
and love is vacant
music is mellow
but deep with sin
my painted hands glide into anothe realm
and the true content is left barely
clothed in soil
it is not the seeing that makes us believe
but the cliche we accept as a reason
life-line
~16.04.02~
when time is ripe
and oranges work mechanically
and embryos create their own world within
the undoable has been done
no cry will help you
get out of your sticky wounded self
no man will rescue you
let steel acquaint itself with flesh
they're heroes
let them entwine and observe
your morbid soul glide into infinity