couple of days ago when i wrote the poem which i didn't intend as poem but which looks like one. --
i didn't intend it as a poem.
just some lines. i am experiencing my words. written under each other so they had space sideways --
i'm not a poet nor artist nor writer. i don't want any words for this (it's still not for you). it's not a vocation. vocare. no one did call me. i didn't call myself. my self is not the source of this all.
writing without calling. without appealing. without wanting.
i don't want
to do think whatever.
i don't want you to listen.
i want your absence.
to safeguard the neutral.
and whatever is possible in the neutral.
sometimes the thought of never speaking anymore.
you'd live in silence with yourself.
something that occupies my mind a lot:
the way everything hurts
i am not able to face my pain in full magnitude.
i cannot force myself into your conservativism.
i've never felt anywhere more a foreigner than here.
my anger at this hostility. and what i am seeing is not here.
i leave you to live in my invisible kingdom
of syllables, fears and dust
of grey, generosity and unjust
of flowers, sophrosyne and forlorn trust
of kindness and feelings of pale rust