FOG

  

by ChryssaVelissariou2013

I do not want anymore

to come back

Even if you think of me 

when it rains '

even if you look at me

hidden in

the mist with your eyes in tears

your back bent.

I do not want anymore

light to live

I walk through the dream's fog '

I talk to 

myself so I can bear the

absence of

the present one in every turn.

Dark my reign.

I do not want anymore

love to feel '

I get pleasure in secret,

even if

you think I do not give in

to defeat,

even if you hope I will

fight again.

IS IT FUTILE?

Sometimes

der arme Poet / the poor poet

Gemälde von Carl Spitzweg.

I wonder

if showing

my soul it

is futile

completely.

I'm exposed.

I confess.

I fight with

myself and

many others

addicted

to dig more

and deeper.

The treasure

is carbon

ad nauseam.

I hope though

looking for

diamonds or

gold nuggets

as frantic

rhymester

in delirium.

I frankly

am grateful

to anyone who

withstands me.

Loneliness

of this kind

to the poet

is equal

to paranoia.

He suffers

from a special

kind of autism

and he needs

rhythm to get

in contact.