Mutated little left hand

Do I dream?
All small doors, all big hopes.
Do I find in my brain the stuff,
The fungal produce of dead matter?

That tiny bit of life that appears of nowhere,
Crawling like a current, sparking like a lightning.

Looking through old thoughts,
Old cabinets filled with younger clothes.

There is nothing there that could ease the pain,
Of a mutated little left hand.

Disorganization in a way that is unique,
That doesn’t matter if your satisfaction fails.

Can you bring yourself to look at the world,
Then at you,
At the world,
And back?

What do you see?

Will this new year bring tears or ink?

Winter now pours through windows and doors,
In all its beauty it freezes us all,
Beautiful patterns melt on the floor,
Our hearts stay in summer, our minds freeze some more.

Imagine this beauty, imagine it all,
How fast it would make you a statue at the pole,
Faster than sneeze your tissue would freeze,
Those beautiful fractals would cover you in a breeze.

Year after year we see the same thing,
Roling the year four seasons and sing,
What do we sing and what do we think?
Will this new year bring fears or ink?

Digging is required

The mind is a mine,
And like all mines,
Digging is required,
Dirty, sweaty, filthy,
And in the end,
Nothing but rocks.

You have just one,
If you stop looking,
You will never find it,
Trust me, it is there,
It has to be,
No one wants to die,
And feel like they never lived.

Have you ever seen insanity where you later saw creativity?

Important Questions 5

I did, I did a long time ago,
I did saw insanity, I didn’t understand,
The beauty of this people
This free people,

I did once, I was young,
I was foolish
I thought I knew everything,
I judged people easily,
And they were so beautiful,
Crazy, free, I did, once.