first there was voice.
then words.
they were too many, words.
i started to paint.
i saw myself in love.
i started to write.
it is like with a painting,
a photo or a face:
everybody sees something else.
language is much worse:
everyone hears something else
and all of us rarely can listen to the other:
where feeling cannot be shared,
poems of love will all fail
to reach.
then the only true shared feeling
will be in the intensity of pain, sadness,
and melancholia.
and poems will change to reflection,
words dug out of the flesh and the
hollow place inside filled with memory
and conflict, they will turn boring
during the act of writing them,
the writer turns deaf and dumb,
and perversion wants again that only
the blood of pain enters communication
and not the flow of joy.
so words must learn to dance in the
wind and we must go back to voice,
to touch, to now,
and when nobody listens
as we need to be listened to
and when nobody hears away
as one must hear away from us
and when no silence can grow
to listen to the wind and the pauses:
we must paint a listener.
use our fingers to draw
and our own blood.
and laugh. laugh. laugh.
laugh our brains out.
until we will not speak anymore.
then sleep comes. sweet sleep.
maybe music forever.
peace.
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