somebody tell the neighbors we are roasting marshmallows
which parts are fiction and which fantasy; those which can be divided
by a line?
refuting beelzy was never real for me, but the passion and imagination with which
i soaked it up late at night were. it sits in front of me, tattered and torn; it's past
becomes fiction to me now. i no longer understand my fasinaction with it, in a way
i no longer know that person who first read it. yet the passion with which i attached
myself to it with still lives-if only in me and these words.
then there are the subtleties. i know only by the look on someone's
face, the words
they do not speak. they might hurt inside, and no one knows. but only if they let me
see it in their face. so let it show on your face; let your fiction become someone
else's fantasy. a tiny gap in your uneccesary heroism might let someone in.
<are> these the nineties? how can an era exist if it is so short-lived?
it hasn't had the
time for poets to be born, for they have been born and died already. we never celebrated.
where is the photo album? where are the children? who is going to put a stop to it?
when will i be satisfied...? somebody tell the neighbors that we are roasting marshmallows
who will tell them that their dreams can be real? if i don't instruct
them, they might miss
the bus. what about learning to have friends, how come everyone else understood but
me. maybe all these questions will end up on a questionnaire one day. in a place where
logic and fantasy live in peace together. a place where we don't have to call it fiction,
because everyone knows that there is no such thing.
there is a certain satisfaction that comes with toasting them till they're
and a sense of peace when you pull the crust off, exposing the vulnerable soft core.