Itchy ponytails, but I can scratch my beard
The bard loses his books, only he could write them
Parallels float across the routes towards home.
I will arrive soon, but as I say, for now lost.
Reddened, salt soaked, searing flap of skin,
As I ride on these rapids between my heart and mind,
Protrudes into my temple like a nail driven between the eyes,
Only occasionally intrudes my thoughts of you
Who is you?: Philosophers don’t understand grammar.
Who are you?
I try to write into the flesh of my void
But from whom did I borrow
that I use?
It is too easy to look for a hope in remembering.
(“Ponytails, beards, skin, heart, eyes, you.”
I, sorry, I am just thoughts, or a tedious heap
Remember who laughed once, the King of English word. He asked you kindly as God ask its slaves: ‘To be or not to be’. You are not the one to stay in box. It is enough of thousands. Touch your face, something good? No. You are still alive. Relax; heaven is here, where you are. There is nothing more horrible than heaven. Joy and struggle in one. It is like coffee in a local shop: 2 in 1. Paradox isn’t it? Choose one and live with passion. Have you chosen? Yes, no, YES? Good. Now you are a King of your castle.
Welcome to philosophy, we are in the first page still, yet the last page is between the mountains where Nietzsche met Zarathustra.