Trees that wear hats

I feel empty, alone and destitute of power . I wallow in excuses, in addictive loops.  I live the sadness of millions one more time, I feel guilty and I incrementally kill myself for it. I look around this desert, and the good things are like water to the coarsest throat. Someone to get in touch, someone to call out. Here in the depths of nothing, in the outreach of hormonal imbalance, there is nothing. Here is Hel. Of the self-made kind.  Obsession with self. I, I and I again. Stuck in a cage, holding the key, and being blinded by its shine. Hitting the head on the railing. Wallow. Determinism. Where do I go, how do I go. Stuck for so long I forgot even how to stretch my legs, my back, my spirit. How to talk, how to bring out the beauty. Punishment. Sins. Guilt. Fever. Hel. On the bring of losing hope. I stare down the ledge, I feel the call of the abyss and can barely make out its enormity. Its seriousness. If I give up hope, there's nothing but darker cages, colder railings.  Re

Un rece adanc roade constiinta. Amintirile sunt o lumanare, dar si aceasta rece. Cautand intelegere intre milioanele de decizii, ma privesc afundat intr-un amestec de melancolie si fantezie. Nu pot scapa la nesfarsit de frigul transant. Lumea trecuta ma cheama inapoi, insa nu pot trai in amintiri, si nici din ele. Certitudinea rutinei se transforma intr-un sir nesfarsit de intrebari legate despre ce ar fi putut sa fie.  Pe limba cui pot intelege singuratatea proprie? Ma uit gresit in oglinda, caut in nestire pentru ce? Caut in muzica, in scriere, in limbi straine, in parcuri, si in mine uneori. Caut infometat, si totusi raman flamand. Copacii se scutura si se inchid in ei. Lumina ne-o facem noi. Caldura o facem noi.  Tot ce era frumos se scurge printre degete, precum amintirile. Nu le poti apuca, ele vin si trec. Vin si trec. Nu pot forta, nu pot intelege, nu pot cuprinde cu imaginatia, ce ar trebui sa fac. Simt ca nu ma pot ruga decat, sa se intample ceva, precum au scris si multi alt

 Grapevine ghoul, hear me, hear me Fiend, fire, phantom, fool, welcome me Childhood stricken with long life, behold the image of grandparents Grapevine ghoul, fear me, fear me Pumpkin seeds and rotten deeds In the oven - bless me, bless me In the scarlet of leaves I'm dressed In the harvest - caressed I scream - it is me! Cup of storm, plate of gold Silverware in the drawers Earthly mother has been told A chalice of songs - behold A higher power in a lower drawer A deck of cards, in the grass, a lover Heart of hearts and king of queens Charm and luck and cats and autumn All on the oven burn, they burn All the heat for the coming winter Why the words spew forth, I linger I lust and I call and the wind is busy Summer overstayed, in the shadow of equinox Do not mistake me for the beaten ox For I am woven, pack is laden Have your break, then go back at'em For I am comfort, soul endearing Hushes from the woods I'm hearing But between my walls I rule The empty memories of a ghoul

 I watch as my dreams dissolve into the uncaring world.  I watch the oak gently reaching for the sky, its open palm lay open, fingers outstretched, gathering bronze. Hail autumn, your winds have reached me. They are gentle, fatherly, easing nature into the inevitable change to come. The linden aroma crumbles amidst the seeds of harvest, and so work and toil has to begin. Fittingly, I reap what I've sown. Loneliness, longing, lust. I harvest lessons from the deathly shell of my ego, my soul, my shroud of lies. They've bloomed into an abyss of no margin. The wind rustles my leaves and I'm left feeling its unfairly gentle to me. Of course I'm but a sapling, so it doesn't matter. The water is gentle, the wind caresses, the birds are calm, and I even find a way to smile, but I feel so damn close to looking too deep into the black. My 27th autumn, and I hear all the echoes, its melancholy is gripping. And I find myself as I've always been.

Why is it trees that wear hats? It's as simple as, there's strength and verticality. Nurturing, shelter, ecosystem. There's communion through the roots and canopy, there's green from white, health from pollution. Silence, yet presence.  The coldness and serenity of the forest walk, the shielding from the wind. There's homes upon homes amidst the branches. Cling onto them to stay away from pests. Climb the hardened hull, it will be there for you.  The colors change with the winds, as it must be, for without change there is nothing but death. Yet the forest persists, through fire and brimstone and chill and thaw. We move from side to side yet never waver. And when you become a target from the know-it-all, you know you've made it. You know the essence is within. The smell lingers and burns and rejuvenates and refreshes. The water clings, yet it is gently let onto the ground. Mating is elegant, unimposing, the three finds roots eventually. There is Tao, there is lig

 Tell me, Could you be a reverie  Or a haunting specter Are you magically Turning daydreams into being Turning my cascade of floods Into sweet meadows. Pray tell me, Do you hide between Candle's mist Behind God's fist Are you innocently Stepping on my freshly cut grass Turning it into a graveyard Of memories. Howling "if", then screaming "only". It takes me back It sickens me and makes me nostalgic and I wish that for one second destiny dared dance closer than arms length.  Or did it come so close that I simply chose to look away? Have I looked away again.

Cu totii suntem cine suntem din necesitate. I wish I were yours to be missed. In continuare, o lista cu ideile scrise in 10 ani, in care ma regasesc: Aplatizat intre o dulce profunzime care se prelinge si se atenueaza in multele ore de frustrare si un amar vis catre ce a fost si ce ar putea fi.   The darkness, the rain outside, the instrumentals, the urge to just write away at life, trying to prove a point to it all.. Iar moartea aduce impreuna, iar povestile deformeaza, consumul nu satisface. Sunt în butoi, butoiul în ocean. Dar eu nu sunt în ocean, nu am voie. Sunt doar pierdut, condus de forțe ce nu țin de mine. Pot vâsli cu mintea mea micuța împotriva curenților de circumstanțe ce mă încojoară? Peace is not a state, however. It is a process of becoming, of constant self-check and self-change. Deci nu te plange ca nu ai timp, asta inseamna sa existi, sa fii mereu mai in viitor decat iti dai seama. I can't remember if I ever deserved you, but you wouldn't know or care, for yo