I wish I could create music. Just perform. Simply play something, anything. Carelessly blow the flute. Strum an old guitar. Or snap at a piano. Fill up the room with my state of mind. Writing is so hard, especially when one is trying to escape his mind. The more you run away from a fact. The closer you would find it, laced in a situation or an expression . Nothing is fiction, no matter how unreal you make it. Little bit of reality always seeps through the thin imaginary holes in the paper. And the writer is left with this unsettling regret, why did I ever pick up the pen, why didn’t I pick up a flute or a guitar or a piano instead.

Payphone

I'm at a payphone trying to call home
All of my change I spent on you
Where have the times gone, baby it's all wrong
Where are the plans we made for two?

Yeah, I, I know it's hard to remember,
The people we used to be...
It's even harder to picture,
That you're not here next to me.

You say it's too late to make it,
But is it too late to try?
And in our time that you wasted
All of our bridges burned down

I've wasted my nights,
You turned out the lights
Now I'm paralyzed,
Still stuck in that time,
When we called it love,
But even the sun sets in paradise

I'm at a payphone trying to call home
All of my change I spent on you
Where have the times gone, baby it's all wrong
Where are the plans we made for two?

Oh, you turned your back on tomorrow
'Cause you forgot yesterday.
I gave you my love to borrow,
But you just gave it away.

You can't expect me to be friend,
I don't expect you to care
I know I've said it before,
But all of our bridges burned down

I'm at a payphone trying to call home
All of my change I spent on you
Where have the times gone, baby it's all wrong
Where are the plans we made for two?

If "Happy Ever After" did exist,
I would still be holding you like this
All those fairy tales are full of shit
One more fucking love song, I'll be sick.

The Great Gatsby

 

It’s a different book tonight

It’s the one I never read

It’s the one that’s be there too long on the list

The pages are glued

The edges soiled

The words get duller with every line

It’s a story about a rich man

With a poor past

A story about having it all

With a pinch of loss

He wants her back

But she is mine

Or so the character feels

Alone with everyone

At ease on his own

After years he realises he is still the same

A wild strawberry in the forest

That can be carelessly plucked

But must be eaten with a lot of care