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Don’t you dare think
I’m in love
or that these are, in any way,
My soul just lusts you, that’s all.
Give me a break.
I have not the skill to climb up to
your moral highground, or rather
I have no desire to step up to
your intellectual pedestal. Even if
I’m dying to see your eyes up close.
I don’t trust my balance.
Should I go up,
There’s a tiny globe in my room
and chunks of atlases all over everyone’s life
and all they do is remind me
of how the world moves on unforgivingly.
I call for democracy!
imposes its movement upon us
and we have absolutely no say in
its direction speed spinning revolving
I call for democracy!
Though I know not
what I wish to achieve
by rewriting the laws
of the universe.
How could I ever put pen to paper?
Because it’s like
but then you go off on a tangent
and for a second
and you’re happy
but then you realize
and you’re not.
The one thing about aiming high
is you’re never gonna be the pretty one
the smart one
the funny one
the quick one
the charismatic one.
I admit to fear being forgettable,
being one in the crowd.
Deep down, I don’t think
I’ll ever be the one.
“How does a rose
feel against your skin?”
Not like a rose petal, though.”
“Because you can’t
feel your own tickles.”
...Besides, the petal can’t feel.
Unlike the rose,
it’s not alive.”
The time there were no houses
to block our view of the mountains
and our tree was still too young
to cover their rosy glow at sunset.
Didn’t they look so much closer?
Still I’m not one to covet nature
wasn’t it as if the world owned us?
Wasn’t it as if we owned the world?
Didn’t it feel like we belonged
to one another, didn’t it, didn’t it feel
a lot like a first love?
Whatever it is about art
that envelops me and makes me
soar, is a mystery.
But I know it draws me the same way
when I see the strokes of impressionism
than when I see the dots in pop-art.
Something about the individual
not making sense.
Something, I now realize,
The Ghosts of Mougins
The high, crooked walls
provide the charm that masks
the gliding of the ghosts
who mourn over the past.
They wail for their sins,
they long for better times.
Accuse me of their arrogance
as they look me in the eye.
They too were artists
who believed themselves greater.
They too were blind
both to love and to hatred.
They too believed their ways
to be the very best,
and as I step into their territory
they ignore how I’ve progressed.
Walking through Mougins,
I feel nothing at all,
but walking away from it,
it fails to catch me, lets me fall.
Endless ways of Looking At My Hunger
First off, I might be lonely.
Then again I might just be bored,
or maybe I feel compelled to wipe my plate
for everyone else who’s hungry,
or wants to escape their reality.
I don’t know. Whatever. It doesn’t really matter, does it?
Not like the hunger for peace,
for happiness, for adventure,
or for calm.
We’re always hungry,
and it’s not always hunger
that drives us to be.
To be hungry,
to be restless,
to be demanding.
It’s what makes us human.
What makes us successful.
And what makes us miserable.