Rage

Even though I'm angry I'll say this.      Standing in the middle of all the commotion of my heart.                                                      Safe from the reigning bitterness,                    I'll weave with words a gleaming handkerchief of misery for you,

And send it flying on a black pigeon.
Hopefully, someday when your heart catches a cold, you'll use it to wipe all the dark red salty mucus,
That will stream down your upper left lip,
Like magma down a volcano.

All this while
How turning inwards we were building a house,
Putting together the dirtiest pieces
Of our malfunctioning brains,
Sharing madness.
We thought we were in love.
Now the walls have been covered with secrets,
And they'r already screaming to be replaced.
Familiarity is not stimulating.

In yellow pages cuddling with Seneca's words,
Rendezvous with the seductive Stoic epiphanies,
I seek refuge.
Seek forgetfulness.
Seek myself.
Who would've thought I'd find myself right where we started.
Then in pursuit.
Now in flight.

Walking through the city streets,
I found in filthy plastic wastes
A map to another world;
Choking in sulphur,
While the sky turned grey after a blue morning,
I searched for the green hills in scrappy notebooks,
At nights drowned in inhibitions, we danced to seductive electronic beats,
Pretending it's an escapade
And
I doodled on packets of potato chips
Innocent tales of freedom.

And yet, those hills are ever distant,
Tomorrow always approaching.
The clock's ticking and it's urgent now,
In your indifference may I forever find the unreason to love and when it's time, before the terror grips me, May I find the strength to say fuck you and head to the hills.