falathiel

poor dreamers in a world where dreams are sold, we are autumn's acid tears and we are one and we are none.                   i, am you - you are not me and                   our reflections don't match. i am not                   here but your face still shows. breezes stand still. i, the child of nature, listen to what nobody has to say - the silence in between the

Softly, ever so softly, the piano is played, by a soul, gotten lost in the music, in every single note, in the sound of its beauty.        how elegant a piano is, when        keys pretend to be your spine and        my fingers play the                lucid movements,                reaching your heart and                stealing a part so that you can never                leave me. I get up, floating almost soundlless across the room.        back to you,                beautiful words, I thought                weren't meant to be said because they sounded                so untrue.                piece of stren

Prada, our new shiny armor,        we walk down postmodern streets where        poison rules, from origins we don't know                (and can't point out on a map)        run through with the hiss of a serpent those “lowlifes“                chose for us, thinking one day they                        too, could get shiny armor for                                themselves. and we don't know who to say yes for and who to say no – except those guys that totally salivate on ya, like when you're all dancin' and popped the ex and he comes all rubbin onto you, ew        how cheap, what a creep and          

i feel so small again st all the words i want to use.      i'm a faded graphite      trace on      your features,           i would want to say      or that my      scrapped voice      rips through a cloud of      newborn consciousness to keep me silent -      that i wanted to     let my fingertips flow     on those deep etched barcode strips on your neck and    &

you are ruffled hair and a piece of deserted skies. there is no      time, for you. only the           words you've forgotten      in languages you don't understand,      between dilapidated dreams and      broken castles. you're the wolf and      the rabbit. the truth will save you but you      don't want to admit that you're the naked walls trying to inhale the stars but filling your lungs with cigarettes, you're no different

sky, crystal clear, gazes deep inside darkened corners of our minds -  the sea wanders, a girl looking away,    through pebbles,       fear of growing old,          children's sand castles, aren't there anymore       impervious shields and       covered words. footprints in the sand, how they dissolve slowly and how they try not to vanish completely - and how they do, eventually. i slip my feet into yours, the warmth of a winter sun and your skin, i want to believe -   

i forget all the beautiful words i   found for you and promised my      self not to - i think they went down a sewer in a foreign town. i sing as a record player stuck   in the same tune, over and over -      same notes beneath same words in the same sincerity. i'm a record player and a black woman murmurs through my words, and i feel home - she whispers a tune of a broken loneliness. the type you find in the corners in crowded streets. on the desk next to the window in a classroom. public toilets. my hands. i'm a grey bird in a blue sky. i'm envious of all the   colors world offers and i find my shelter amid a rain clo