I am not questioning my faith

but when I saw you for the first time

I prayed 

and asked the gods to make you go away

"Don't let her steal my mind!",
shield me.

the horses running
the coachman says fly
my guts say fight
I open my eyes
she is still there
carrying in her arms the guy I buried 
6 feet deep under the ground, 
with a broken heart,
I am not 
what I pretend to be,

​

this costume fits me well,
but only because I've worn it out
to the degree of it sticking to my body

​

I am not the nice guy
the man with words
I prefer swords, but I carry no arms
My word is powerful enough
diplomacy is what I postponed for later stages 

until then 

I tell the left and right 

to fuck off

I am not 
the party inside your head
I am not 
the party inside my head
I am not my thoughts
I am lost
I am not thinking every time I speak
my words are autopoiesis
they have emerging properties
and are taking over my old selves
and there is always a plot twist 
the catalyst to a higher degree order 
existence
we all fight for 
transformation,
from stability to entropy ]

and back 
to ordered chaos.​​

​

I am not

what I say I am 
when I tell you my name
behind brown eyes
is a straight line
to the god living inside me:
little,  cripple',  lost  in  a  stranger’s body,
my nose
had a difficult adulthood
collateral damage to my 
walk through walls passion
my mouth is fine,
and cheeks and skin 

​

I look a little Polish if you don’t know me​

​

I am not patient 

I am love only when I remember to be present

I not 
The happy ending you deserve
I am not owning property
I am not fucking compulsively
or being mean to the people who don’t deserve it
I am not a religious person -
I put my faith in other mysterious places
How are we not gods 
if we daily create miracles?
we fly to space
we jum-

p
back from it to 
earth.
we cure each other of diseases 
and create art about our loved ones
I am not shadowboxing my consciousness 
till my faith starts responding, Kendrick

​
I am not

my expectation
I am too comfortable to
think of any black swans
the randomness 
becomes regularity 
on higher time frames

​

How random is it that my words touch your soul?

​

​​​It’s not 

​

and I am not whatever adjective you add after implicit human
we’ve invented words to describe better things 
than putting labels on us all — 
I am not a dreamer,
my nights are usually dark

and dreaml e s s 
unless I am scared,
then I
eye-dream about her,
​her black-black hair,

Carrying in her arms 
The guy I buried
six feet deep under the ground 
She looks straight into my eyes and goes

- you have no idea what happens to the grass at night, do you?

Shocked, I asked, my voice trembling

- what happens to the grass?
It’s probably changing colors
It’s gray or black

​​​

​Nothing -
She interrupted me quickly, 
Her voice was a north sea wind 
Nothing, she repeated,
happens,
to the grass, 
at night.

It looks like something should happen

but it is simply not there
when you try to look at it 
there is a little chance you are going to see that there is

nothing,

and when you look away,
everything disappears.​