I conquer the World With Words

Meaningless sunday afternoon.
In the haze, time flows
Slowly, suddenly, beween us.
Time flows slowly, ignores us;
In a single second, we live a century.

(27/11/2011 - Edinburgh)

Sometimes I mistake your breath
For the sound of my heart
Beating.

(26/08/2011 - Paris)

This blog has barely started that it stopped being updated regularly… I don’t know if I owe anyone an apology, I don’t think anyone cares about what is being written here. But if you wanted one, here it is!
I recently embarked on a long journey: writing a novel. Not THE novel, just mine. After years of filling notebooks with terrible things, I had the feeling that I had found my voice. And most importantly, a story to tell.
Unfortunately, this alone takes an hour or two in a schedule that is already busy at the moment. That leaves me very little time to type my poems and publish them here. So, there will be very few updates in the near future. 
But who cares? As long as the pen keeps moving! 

Things are spinning round and round,
Things are spinning round
When I’m with you

In the playground we made of our lifes
We spin, laughing, together
And the world blurs away
Around us.

In the never ending motion of our souls
Nothing exists for me but
Your smile, now.

Together we engage in the ephemeral dance
Unaware
That if you fall,
Together we fall.

(16/12/2011 - Oxford) 

There are the parts of your life
I will never know of,
We will never talk about.

There are those dreams
Hiding in the child that hides
Behind your eyes.
Those dreams I will never be told.

There are those fears
That wake you up at night,
When I’m not there.
Those fears I won’t blow away.

There are these landscapes
Where you mind wanders,
Arms crossed, your eyes contemplating their absence.
Those landscape I will never see a picture of.

But in the end,
In this negligible part of our lives
We spend together,
Next to each other,
You are my thoughts,
The sadness as well as the happiness.

You are the landscapes my eyes gaze upon,
The dreams I huddle up to

You, I, are the memories we share
And we fear no despair,
Because

All alone,
Together we are one.

(10/02/12 - Paris)

Your smile in the—still dark—morning,
My light steps on the muddy path.

Fresh breeze in a sunny afternoon,
Anger broke the atmosphere:
You make me cold, inside.

Every hour spent catching the clouds,
All the minutes writing our name in the sky,
With one hand?
Those seconds drowned in the river,
With my soul.

Vanished. Yet, while the cold wind makes us shiver, it carries away the dandelion seeds. Angry, we look at them. Still in the sun, they shine, blind us with their beauty.

Here we are , dead living,
Expecting
Running
Complaining
Ignoring
That the path to happiness starts
With a single breath
In a crowded train

(20/01/2012 - Paris)

Write exactly what you think, when you think it. Tell the world the inner story of your life. Tell the noises, the pictures your minds hangs on to, the feelings driving you mad. Enumerate these eyes you’ve met, those breaths you’ve heard, count the feet on that floor, describe the vibrations of your body coming from your feet, your head banging against that windowpane.

Fill the pages with the common, the boring, the non-exceptional. Let shine on facts the life within.

Break the border between you and the world, let the world be the projection of yourself, be yourself. Free your mind from itself, let it spread accross space.

Refuse objectivity, subjectively. Objectivity doesn’t understand you. Objectivity denies you. Truth lies within, not in things.

And think for yourself. The world doesn’t care anyway.

(28/10/2011 - Cappellebrouck)

I write at night because we haven’t been far enough yet.

Because we cannot describe. Only feel, only live.

Because I’m never satisfied. Every word, every line, every draft drags me further. Further from what I really feel, for you:
How many words for a single of your smiles?
How many lines for this gracious, arrogant hand?
How many drafts for the curves of your hair?
How many lives spent writing for the depth of you eyes?

I write at night to experience, word after word, the lightness of our thoughts.
To paint the world, in black, flat, on paper.
To take away from the world all its complexity, its randomness, its emotion.

I write at night in an attempt to salvage a fraction of my living soul.
To satisfy this thing, inside me.
Because I cannot tell it to shut up.

This thing inside me, that doesn’t want to stop, the train of thoughts which, always, accelerates, faster, faster, faster, faster. And faster and faster and faster and faster and faster, my hand desperately dragged into a frenzied ballet. Before it stops. Suddenly, in a last spasm of my whole being.

I write at night my life, my love for you.

(18/01/2012 - Paris)

Like these lines
—Unexpected—
You landed,
Softly,
Gracefully
On my life’s
Desperately
Empty,
Dusty
Floor.

(14/01/2012 - Oxford)