I write and
It's like the words also became my enemy.
They wanna have me powerless in this agony
where I stay insufficient in my voice.
I try to communicate with the monsters
but my mind is ashen graveyard - haunted,
my eyes are windows coverd in shredded drapes
and I can not speak about it.



I write and
It's like the words are coming for my throat.
The pain I feel blooming there is like my throat
itself is giving birth to a blade.
And I'm afraid to spit it out.
I can't heare my thoughts above the wallowing sounds,
that fly around me like I'm an asylum they wanna inhabit.



I write, still
but this creativity wants to be my destruction.
It wants to hang me by my neck when I sleep,
and send my soul to a dark voyage that would swallow every particle of me.
I'm amongst trees and they are keeping the oxygen for themselves, never letting me breathe.
Sometimes I hear them say their roots need me, under cold mossy dirt.
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