Take your broken heart, make it into art

If you had a dollar for every time I said this

for every time I quoted Carrie Fisher

you‘d be a millionaire.

If I had a dollar for every time

you brought up this dollar thing

I‘d be a billionaire.

We just easily fell into place

with our quirks and

our scars

and

I lifted you up

when you grounded me

I kicked your ass to do things

when you made me chill the fuck out

for once in my goddamn life

and

now I am afloat.

Hundreds of feet above the ground

a balloon in the night sky

being nudged further away by the wind

Slowly drifting away

Its calm up here

Quiet

Not a sound between the stars

And cold

Freezing

And I wonder how I ever breathed

and did I ever need to, really?

I lost my ground

casting off

anchor gone

And I am scared

and yet a weight was lifted

but still scared of what‘s ahead

and scared ‚cause I‘m not burning

(why am I not burning)

Why do I feel so calm

and so cold

And nothing feels real anymore

I‘m just floating higher

and higher

(They say sky is the limit but

they didn‘t account for the infinity of space)

and forget that I have ever breathed

or moved

or felt

crystals on my face

that used to be tears

as I drift away

so much faster than I thought

Into emptiness

Take your broken heart

make it into art

but right now

art feels shallow

How can I make it art

when my heart has

yet to be shattered by the ice

Making art is just a habit

but how can I express what I feel

when I can‘t feel anything?

I am just floating off

it's so easy to fly when you weigh nothing

‚cause you‘re empty

Staring into space

and space stares back

as we become one

calm

and

cold

and

infinite nothing

and it will feel like peace

until I finally

implode

Excursion To Poetry #5 - Untitled

And boom, there you are.

All of a sudden,

as if you had always been there,

as if it was no big deal.

Boom, here you are.

And we click,

as if it was the most natural thing in the world,

as if we hadn‘t been doing anything else our entire lives.

All of a sudden,

you are here,

and I can say all the things that have wandered my mind for eternity,

say them out loud and even before you respond,

I know that you understand me.

We share a language all on our own,

even though I have to google every second word because we don‘t,

and yet you still always get what I am trying to say.

You are miles away and yet I feel at home just hearing your voice.

I should feel bad for all of this.

I should not feel that way for another person.

And I feel like all of this should blow over soon,

like I should get it out of my system

and then go back to normal.

I don‘t want this to end.

I want to spend the rest of my life staying up all night on the phone.

Or better, up all night on your side.

But I gave this promise to someone else already.

And I don‘t want this to end either.

So I spend my nights talking

happier than I have been in ages

hiding away my bitterness

about this having to end at some point.

Because I am not that kind of person.

I don‘t want this to end.

So I live in the moment

until it does.

Excursion To Poetry #2 - Apr. 2015

I see how you look at me.
I see your look
that always brushes me when we meet
how it wanders up my body
inch by inch
until it rests on my face.

I see the way you look at me and I think
I know what that means:
desire.
Craving.
Wild emotions in a heart
that can rarely be wild,
if ever,
the heart of a person that seems as if
in regards of softness,
a lack of impulsivity
could compete with a rabbit:
for flight reasons, tops,
but fully unfit for the hunt.
And it's good as it is.

I enjoy that look way too much,
enjoying the attention,
enjoying feeling more than welcome,
as if you and I,
in this room full of people,
share a secret that was never has been told,
never spoken aloud,
that maybe doesn't exist at all.

I enjoy this feeling to be special,
a fobidden fruit,
a jewel displayed on a velvet pillow,
ready to be grabbed but surrounded by alarm systems.
Look, don't touch,
or your world will collapse on you.

It is good as it is,
that you are reserved,
because I enjoy it too much to tempt you,
being the emboyment of a fantasy
that mustn't come true
and, in the next moment,
blinking innocently,
wallowing in my own guilt.

I am torn between monster and moralizer,
and I am sure that if you were not you
we'd already boarded
the night train to the brink,
but I dream. I am allowed to dream.
My thouhts are free,
and I will think, dream,
as long as my conscience lets me.

Dreaming of fingers running through my hair,
touching nose tips,
only half open eyes,
only quiet, muffled breaths,
of the dawn,
just standing on the ledge a few more minutes
staring down, fascinated by not seeing the bottom of the pit,
dropping a pebble down from time to time
to estimate how far down it goes
before you hit the ground.

And then taking a respectful step back,
one step, two steps,
to safety where no one has to catch me,
until the echo of the pebble fades away
and I can finally sigh with relief
and then pretend nothing ever happend,
and that I never saw that look of yours.

Excursion To Poetry #1 - Jan. 2015

I think I love you.
You dance through the world on your tiptoes,
fleet-fooded, lighthearted, free,
like a dandelion seed.
I admire the child-like lightness you live your life with,
admire how underneath the facade of a young man,
a grown man,
there's always the little boy glacing from behind the curtain,
mischievously grinning,
winking,
laughing out loud
before running back into the forrest
to climb trees
build forts
play cops and robbers.
It seems like I could never stop
to count the invisible freckles in your face
the tiny metaphors of your boyishness
that aren't really there.

I think I love you.
Your words sound like those of an old man
wise
well-read
versed
but mentally and physically
alert and
firing on all cylinders.
When you tell of your wars
your revolutions
your politics
as if you lived through all of it
I'd love to sit in your lap
and listen
with wide eyes
fascinated by your stories
as if I'd never heard them before.
I didn't.
Not with that buzz, that passion
that you tell them with.
You fascinate me with your multifacetedness
and with your thousand faces.
Young and old and timeless.
Happy and sad all at once.
Weak and strong.

 I don't understand you
and reading you, like others can,
is impossible to me.
I think I love you.
Life feels so easy with you.
With you, life feels
like an endless summer
like making a night of it
like rainy sundays spent half-naked with a cup of tea in bed
like pizza with infinite cheese
like Come On Eileen by Dexys Midnight Runners
like dancing in the summer rain
like a glass of red wine while taking a bath
like endless holidays, forever
like a perfectly sweetened cup of hot chocolate
like Hooked On A Feeling by Blue Swede
and like Come And Get Your Love by Redbone.

I think I love you.
It's a strange kind of love.
I don't know if I want to be with you
and I know even less how you feel about it.
I only know that I want to have you here with me
my head on your lap
your hand playing with my hair
and your lips on mine
from time to time.

If you don't want me
it's not going to fret me
and it wouldn't change my feelings for you
because my love for you is independent
of your reciprocation
and from my validation.
I only want you to know
how special you are to me.
I want you to know
that you are loved.
I want you to know
that you are marvelous.
Yes.
I think I love you.