It's so different now. And it has never been like this. It's all empty and kind of colorless. Can you imagine me using this word... But I'll say it again... Colorless.
And nice ladies don't share their flowers anymore cause they're not nice anymore. And what's the point in having flowers that don't bring joy?
And it feels like I don't belong here. Like I was never supposed to be this far from your arms, from your heart. But people leave whether I like it or not. And they don't just leave... They leave and leave you colorless. Leave you with nothing, not even a little piece of crayon to start all over again. And people don't keep their promises anymore. And they don't care how you feel... They just do what they have to do and if you're in the way... Then you're out. And after that every big event in your life can be described with one single word... Whatever.
And I used to pray for God to give you back to me. But I'm not sure that's how things work. You have a say in this. Unlike me. No one asked me if I wanted to cry or not. No one gave me the opportunity to choose if I want to be broken or not. I just don't have a say in this. And it's not you who lost. It's all me.
And music doesn't matter, poetry doesn't matter. Nothing does. And you're standing right in front of me and you know all this and you do nothing about it. There's nothing you can do, you'd say but you're wrong. The only one who can do something about anything is you. But you refuse to move your finger. After all, you said sorry and your hands are clean. And I don't even remember how I fall asleep anymore. And I make up stories where I'm good and my life is good. But you're not a puppet I control. Your heart is not a piece of paper I can do whatever I want with. It's free will. It's a free country. And it's a girl tied to you, one you don't see and don't care about, a girl you don't want but drag around. And I find myself not knowing what to pray about. But it's not your direction. You chose another one, a better one. And I'll be on the wrong one. It's fine. Cause I can't imagine you feeling like this because of me. So it's fine cause you're fine. And it doesn't matter that those orange sleeves are all wet and it's not even bed time yet.
сряда, 31 март 2010 г.
петък, 26 март 2010 г.
Не сега
Ела нова, променена, по-добра.
Ела тиха и нежно мълчалива.
С цветовете на майската зора,
Ела спокойна, търпелива.
Ела каквато си,
Каквато никога не си била.
Макар от някои изгонена и неприета
Ела при мен с всичката си красота.
Ела единствена, неповторима,
Без да искаш разрешение.
Ела когато никой друг не иска да те има,
Ела без дори капчица съмнение.
Ела свободна, по-голяма,
Ела изчистена от всеки срам.
Без значение какво си преживяла,
А много преживяла си, знам.
Ела открито, без да те е страх.
Хаотична и дива ела.
Старите спомени превърни във прах.
Ела сякаш винаги тук си била.
Ела силна и смела,
Готова всичко да търпиш.
Ела незабравена, съдбата си приела.
Знам, че не можеш дълго да спиш.
Ще те чакам, ти знаеш
И моля те... Ела.
Ела когато пожелаеш.
Ела, любов, но не сега...
Ела тиха и нежно мълчалива.
С цветовете на майската зора,
Ела спокойна, търпелива.
Ела каквато си,
Каквато никога не си била.
Макар от някои изгонена и неприета
Ела при мен с всичката си красота.
Ела единствена, неповторима,
Без да искаш разрешение.
Ела когато никой друг не иска да те има,
Ела без дори капчица съмнение.
Ела свободна, по-голяма,
Ела изчистена от всеки срам.
Без значение какво си преживяла,
А много преживяла си, знам.
Ела открито, без да те е страх.
Хаотична и дива ела.
Старите спомени превърни във прах.
Ела сякаш винаги тук си била.
Ела силна и смела,
Готова всичко да търпиш.
Ела незабравена, съдбата си приела.
Знам, че не можеш дълго да спиш.
Ще те чакам, ти знаеш
И моля те... Ела.
Ела когато пожелаеш.
Ела, любов, но не сега...
четвъртък, 18 март 2010 г.
You Just Can't
Dear personal overachiever,
You can't sign a treaty with perfection because it's always taking refuge up in trees and you refuse to climb.
You can't offer death a cigarette and socialize because it's trying to quit and you don't even smoke.
You can't send life a bouquet of roses and a letter home because you don't know where it lives, just somewhere between heartbeats and rib cages.
Well, You just can't, understand?
You can't change the course of rivers,
you can't seize the cycling grief of lakes.
You can't promise to send the world shaking when you're too afraid of your own damned mistakes.
You say you're a traveler and yet you haven't left home,
you say you're a singer but you haven't risen your voice.
Well, you can't tread oceans without your feet becoming tired and you can't shout a song whose chorus you don't know.
You can't ride on the backs of sparrows or paper airplanes because, let's face it, you're just not as weightless as you try to make yourself believe.
And finally: you can't gain knowledge when you're reading books with faded pages.
Remember, age does not make history. I'm not even sure it makes experience anymore.
Sincerely,
well, you just can't
You can't sign a treaty with perfection because it's always taking refuge up in trees and you refuse to climb.
You can't offer death a cigarette and socialize because it's trying to quit and you don't even smoke.
You can't send life a bouquet of roses and a letter home because you don't know where it lives, just somewhere between heartbeats and rib cages.
Well, You just can't, understand?
You can't change the course of rivers,
you can't seize the cycling grief of lakes.
You can't promise to send the world shaking when you're too afraid of your own damned mistakes.
You say you're a traveler and yet you haven't left home,
you say you're a singer but you haven't risen your voice.
Well, you can't tread oceans without your feet becoming tired and you can't shout a song whose chorus you don't know.
You can't ride on the backs of sparrows or paper airplanes because, let's face it, you're just not as weightless as you try to make yourself believe.
And finally: you can't gain knowledge when you're reading books with faded pages.
Remember, age does not make history. I'm not even sure it makes experience anymore.
Sincerely,
well, you just can't
понеделник, 15 март 2010 г.
1992 - ...
Ten childhood memories later, and you're no longer holding grasshoppers between cupped hands.
You forgot what you named your shadow, why you sword fought with it and pirouetted around grand oaks just to be sure it stayed near.
People snicker when you count on your fingers, they laugh when you count on birthday candle wishes and dandelions breathed goodbye.
People wonder why you hopscotch on railroad tracks when a train is just ten minutes away.
Because it hasn't called out yet, you want to reply.
Because it hasn't whistled and there's still a distance between risk and innocence.
Ten childhood dimes poorer, and you still wonder why you're not rich.
You were once queen of your own sandcastle, you once found a whole dollar by the gutter with no one around to claim it.
Your grandmother gave you a golden chain with a heart-shaped clock dangling from it, and it pumped minutes without veins, made a little ticking sound like a heart beat.
But it never lived, it never breathed, so it wasn't worth a thing.
But around your neck, it turned sunlight to gold, and it was sure pretty.
They could teach you how to tell time, but they could never teach you what to tell it, and so you never knew what to tell your Time Heart when it hummed away minutes
in the morning, kept the hours running through the night.
They could teach you how the Earth keeps spinning and that's how life goes on, but not how it turns nights to gold and days to quicksilver.
They could tell you why the lungs shrivel and why muscles grow weak, but why your favorite childhood pastimes and ambitions grow old remained a mystery.
They could show you how to write your name, but nobody else's, and I think that's
why I've stopped greeting my shadow.
I just let it stay a while and fill the space where something else had once been.
You forgot what you named your shadow, why you sword fought with it and pirouetted around grand oaks just to be sure it stayed near.
People snicker when you count on your fingers, they laugh when you count on birthday candle wishes and dandelions breathed goodbye.
People wonder why you hopscotch on railroad tracks when a train is just ten minutes away.
Because it hasn't called out yet, you want to reply.
Because it hasn't whistled and there's still a distance between risk and innocence.
Ten childhood dimes poorer, and you still wonder why you're not rich.
You were once queen of your own sandcastle, you once found a whole dollar by the gutter with no one around to claim it.
Your grandmother gave you a golden chain with a heart-shaped clock dangling from it, and it pumped minutes without veins, made a little ticking sound like a heart beat.
But it never lived, it never breathed, so it wasn't worth a thing.
But around your neck, it turned sunlight to gold, and it was sure pretty.
They could teach you how to tell time, but they could never teach you what to tell it, and so you never knew what to tell your Time Heart when it hummed away minutes
in the morning, kept the hours running through the night.
They could teach you how the Earth keeps spinning and that's how life goes on, but not how it turns nights to gold and days to quicksilver.
They could tell you why the lungs shrivel and why muscles grow weak, but why your favorite childhood pastimes and ambitions grow old remained a mystery.
They could show you how to write your name, but nobody else's, and I think that's
why I've stopped greeting my shadow.
I just let it stay a while and fill the space where something else had once been.
понеделник, 8 март 2010 г.
If they could speak...
If all those things could speak... And say something, a story... Oh the marvelous stories they would tell...
The bench would tell such funny and romantic stories of how we named it, of all the beautiful promises made in its presence. It would probably mention all the laughter, all the tears, all the compliments.
But it doesn't speak... It's a silent bench in the park, and it's there now and will be there even though we are not there anymore.
The garages... Oh those garages. They have so much to say of how I didn't want to let you go, of how we couldn't say goodbye, of all the long hours just standing right in front of them without talking...
But garages don't speak. And even though we don't stand in front of them anymore... They simply don't care.
The swings. I've never liked them before and now they just gave me all the more reasons not to like them. If they could speak they would tell a sad story of shock and disappointment, broken dreams and a broken heart.
But the noise they make when you swing on them... That's not speaking. That's being rusty.
The snow would tell people the story of first pictures, million hugs and last kisses.
The story of first presents, birthday flowers and goodbyes.
But instead it makes your mouth move slower than it usually does...
The phone wouldn't tell you a story... It would just play again all those conversations full of love, anger, jokes, beautiful words and things left unsaid. It would replay all the sighs, all the smiles it saw, all the bitterness it witnessed, all the support, all the judging, all the apologies.
But it's a machine that does not record those things. And it didn't stop ringing after that night.
The ground would have so many interesting things to share. It took our first steps walking hand in hand, our little steps towards each others hearts, our waiting for vehicles and our sitting in restaurants, our picking of daisies, and also our steps towards the end.
But it holds those things to itself and it won't say a thing.
The pillow has no stories to tell... It just has tears to show and laughter it has kept under the blanket. It has black stains from running make up and smiles printed from happy moments.
But it has promised to never reveal those things to anybody.
The mirror contains so many images and questions. It would show you all the nice clothes, all the "changing-of-mind-at-the-last-minute"s, all the "am-I-pretty?"s, all the sad looks, all the sunshine.
But instead it keeps reflecting. It cannot speak.
The tree would make people listen carefully, telling the story of sitting under it sharing weaknesses, opening hearts, late hour conversations, phone calls from parents, being cold, eating ice-cream.
But it's a quiet object. And even if it could speak it wouldn't say a thing cause it's not there anymore. Neither are we.
The computer would be a hell of a story-teller. With all the secrets shared, all the feelings revealed, the friendship growing, the fights, the things not written, the things deleted, the songs heard, the pictures seen, the smilie-faces sent, the messages from different countries, the "I miss you"s, the "I love you"s, the "I don't love you"s.
But instead it keeps turning on and shutting down, signing in and logging out. And it has nothing to tell anymore.
The box would show you the special objects put in it... The pen, the flower petals, the letters, the notes, the pictures, the rope, the necklace, the sign...
But all that box does is stay on the shelf. And it has a huge collection of dust of all kinds. But no words to share.
The hands... How many things could one hear from them... Shaking because of shyness and being nervous or impatient, being cold and then being inside yours and then being warm again, the nice feeling of being held or kissed, the presents and flowers put in them, the times when they held a smile or wiped tears...
But they can't speak. They don't even have a scar, a reminder of all those years.
And finally...
The girl... Maybe she has stories to tell. Stories of shy looks, secret feelings, happiness and sorrow, forgiveness and forgetfulness, stories of funny topics and conversations that should have never existed, of ideas about surprises and presents, dreams and expectations, disappointments and excitements, road trips, memories, sitting on sofas, watching movies, eating pizzas, going for walks, decisions made together, compromises and selfishness, stubborn words, "sorry"s, imagining future, names...
She has so many things to say...
But you won't hear a thing. She has locked all this in her heart, deep down, in a room with a big locker never to be open...
Because those things are no more. So there's nothing left to say...
The bench would tell such funny and romantic stories of how we named it, of all the beautiful promises made in its presence. It would probably mention all the laughter, all the tears, all the compliments.
But it doesn't speak... It's a silent bench in the park, and it's there now and will be there even though we are not there anymore.
The garages... Oh those garages. They have so much to say of how I didn't want to let you go, of how we couldn't say goodbye, of all the long hours just standing right in front of them without talking...
But garages don't speak. And even though we don't stand in front of them anymore... They simply don't care.
The swings. I've never liked them before and now they just gave me all the more reasons not to like them. If they could speak they would tell a sad story of shock and disappointment, broken dreams and a broken heart.
But the noise they make when you swing on them... That's not speaking. That's being rusty.
The snow would tell people the story of first pictures, million hugs and last kisses.
The story of first presents, birthday flowers and goodbyes.
But instead it makes your mouth move slower than it usually does...
The phone wouldn't tell you a story... It would just play again all those conversations full of love, anger, jokes, beautiful words and things left unsaid. It would replay all the sighs, all the smiles it saw, all the bitterness it witnessed, all the support, all the judging, all the apologies.
But it's a machine that does not record those things. And it didn't stop ringing after that night.
The ground would have so many interesting things to share. It took our first steps walking hand in hand, our little steps towards each others hearts, our waiting for vehicles and our sitting in restaurants, our picking of daisies, and also our steps towards the end.
But it holds those things to itself and it won't say a thing.
The pillow has no stories to tell... It just has tears to show and laughter it has kept under the blanket. It has black stains from running make up and smiles printed from happy moments.
But it has promised to never reveal those things to anybody.
The mirror contains so many images and questions. It would show you all the nice clothes, all the "changing-of-mind-at-the-last-minute"s, all the "am-I-pretty?"s, all the sad looks, all the sunshine.
But instead it keeps reflecting. It cannot speak.
The tree would make people listen carefully, telling the story of sitting under it sharing weaknesses, opening hearts, late hour conversations, phone calls from parents, being cold, eating ice-cream.
But it's a quiet object. And even if it could speak it wouldn't say a thing cause it's not there anymore. Neither are we.
The computer would be a hell of a story-teller. With all the secrets shared, all the feelings revealed, the friendship growing, the fights, the things not written, the things deleted, the songs heard, the pictures seen, the smilie-faces sent, the messages from different countries, the "I miss you"s, the "I love you"s, the "I don't love you"s.
But instead it keeps turning on and shutting down, signing in and logging out. And it has nothing to tell anymore.
The box would show you the special objects put in it... The pen, the flower petals, the letters, the notes, the pictures, the rope, the necklace, the sign...
But all that box does is stay on the shelf. And it has a huge collection of dust of all kinds. But no words to share.
The hands... How many things could one hear from them... Shaking because of shyness and being nervous or impatient, being cold and then being inside yours and then being warm again, the nice feeling of being held or kissed, the presents and flowers put in them, the times when they held a smile or wiped tears...
But they can't speak. They don't even have a scar, a reminder of all those years.
And finally...
The girl... Maybe she has stories to tell. Stories of shy looks, secret feelings, happiness and sorrow, forgiveness and forgetfulness, stories of funny topics and conversations that should have never existed, of ideas about surprises and presents, dreams and expectations, disappointments and excitements, road trips, memories, sitting on sofas, watching movies, eating pizzas, going for walks, decisions made together, compromises and selfishness, stubborn words, "sorry"s, imagining future, names...
She has so many things to say...
But you won't hear a thing. She has locked all this in her heart, deep down, in a room with a big locker never to be open...
Because those things are no more. So there's nothing left to say...
четвъртък, 4 март 2010 г.
Момиче и приказка
-Разкажи ми приказка, Принцесо...
-Ще ти разкажа, мъничко момиче...
Но не приказка за любов и щастие, залези и бели рокли,
не за радостни сърца...
Ще ти разкажа истината аз момиче...
За това как Любовта и Болката вървят ръка за ръка...
Ще ти разкажа как имало едно време красавица наречена Любов
и влюбила се тя в младеж
потаен, тих, винаги смълчан и тъжен,
понякога жесток и безмилостен, понякога ридаещ...
Казвал се той Болка...
Не могла Любовта да си обясни сама защо обичала го тъй...
Но без него не знаела как да диша, да живее...
Не били най-добрата двойка...
Тя тъй нежна, мила, красива, всеотдайна,
а той тъй жесток към другите,
не щадил дори и младите - всички наранявал с думи, мисли и дела.
Любовта не харесвала това, но без него просто не могла.
И така вървели заедно, един до друг, ръка за ръка...
Верни един на друг били винаги ...
Там където била Любовта
не закъснявала и Болката.
Когато Любовта дарявала някого със щастие и радост
идвал нейният любим
и разрушавал всичко, което тя градяла ден и нощ без спир.
Не искала Любовта хората да страдат, но не могла без него вечер очи да притвори
Нито сутрин без него да ги отвори...
И затова пред щастието на хората избрала си тя собственото...
Затова, мъничко момиче,
наивно,
глупаво,
красиво...
Видиш ли щастие в нечии очи,
почувстваш ли любов в сърцето си...
Бягай, мъничко момиче,
колкото можеш по-далеч.
Помни колко егоистична е Любовта,
обрекла хората на тъга за да може тя да бъде влюбена...
Помни моята приказка...
Помни, за да можеш когато пораснеш
на други мънички момичета да я разкажеш.
Помни, че там където Любовта е, там е и Болката.
-Обещавам ти, Принцесо...
Ще разкажа приказката аз на всички...
Но няма да им казвам да бягат когато видят щастие,
нито да се крият видят ли Любов...
Не си разбрала приказката ти, Принцесо...
Любовта не е егоистка...
Тя избрала Болката за свой спътник
за да спаси хората от мъка.
За да може където Болка разрушава
да поправи всичко Любовта.
И обричайки себе си на горест и страдания
Любовта дала надежда на всички.
За да знаят големи, стари, мънички
Че дори и плач да пренощува
Със утринната зора ще дойде радостта...
Ще разкажа аз, че Любовта и Болката заедно вървят, ръка за ръка...
Така че видят ли някъде Болка... да знаят... наблизо е Любовта.
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