AR: This is not the poem you are going to love

 I’m one of the few who have the urge
Death makes me want to live
For the sweetest death.
Someone planted a voice inside me. Aggravated.
Or is it someone else?

Life awakens in me a desire for the sweetest death. Again.
Death makes me want to live. Death and hatred.
And the dreams?
Dreams can only be learned. Then you learn to give them to others.

There is the throaty voice in the womb.
Fresh flowers on the larynx grow in the weeds.
There are the dark glands in the throat.
Someone planted a voice in me, Aggravated
Or is it someone else? .

Wonder is keeping it’s pace.
The dead are always coming back
They always have unpleasant names.
The Nameless Ones
Fill up their chests with plates of porridge

I am The Unnamed One
On the road waiting for me
Only the dead can understand
Behind the dead gate where they sleep
There exists no ringing bell

The days go by
The same, one after the other
You become the monk of silence.
The past is frozen on the other side of the eye
Wake me up and let me be, because …
Having me is unsuitable..

Here I am .. Close to …
Right next to life.
He grabs you to live
Then he pushes you back

Amused he is, looking on proudly
at our downfall

In the prison of my hunger
When I cry, turn away, do not disturb, do not disturb
People agree to nod, to be loved.
To them, it is more important than  respect.
I’m not able to enjoy someone else’s happiness.
So stupid and uninspiring.
It’s a kind of boredom I can not stand.
But I still prefer happiness from annoying people.
It happens less commonly.

Still.. Wondering is keeping it’s pace..

On the road waiting for me
Only the dead can understand
Behind the dead gate where they sleep
There exists no ringing bell