Étiquette : lines

Don’t get over

Don’t get over
Keep wounded
With just enough blood and heart
To function
To feel like you’re grounded

It’s better than healing
Cause you never heal anyway

Don’t get over
Stay within the field of fire
And if it burns you out
You’ve come too close
If it steels your heart
Your blend’s too cold

Keep wounded
We all live wounded
For most of our lives

It’s the care that matters
Not the cure
It’s the making you feel better
Not secured

Don’t get over
If your soul resists
If your mind persists

You’re not compelled to heal
As long as you don’t stain the whole river
Or make a flooding wave of your tears

So keep wounded
Feel alive,
Unrested

Follow the hand that brings direction, protection
Not the one that lends medication, salvation

Don’t get over
Keep wounded
With well enough blood and heart
To function,
To be founded.

To love yourself (is such a painful job).


To love yourself is such a painful job
How would anyone sane apply for this duty ?
When it takes little effort to self-loathe, self-destroy,
To ruin every best piece of your personality.

In a more realistic common sense,
It is a hard enough task to give yourself respect.
And I mean, it’s a full-time job as well,
Just to keep your dignity, your balance and values,
A true sense of who you are, and who you’re not.
But you don’t have to love yourself at least…
What a high commitment to impress on your daily behaviour,
On your conscious and unconscious way of living.

To love yourself, it’s someone else’s job.
And who’s that brave for such intense giving ?
Except your parents really, who would this burden self-impose ?
You might be lovable, sure, yet even so,
You’re only one in the many.

There’s a less hypothetical chance
That you’d be taken care by someone else
And this could mean a lifetime job as well.
So if you’re blest enough to find protection and concern,
Avoid resentment against whom that keeps you from self-pity,
From all your « nobody cares for me ».
Surely someone does, whoever they might be.
Then it’s your painful job not to resist, not to break free.

People walking solitary (on a springtime evening)

I believe in people walking solitary on a springtime evening,
Who’re not drunks, hoboes, or weirdos,
Who’re not junkies or pushers,
Hustlers and hookers,
None of them typical midnight freaks.
Who’re not even walking their dog,
Or joining a free party in the woods…
It might seem unlikely,
But they just need a little talking to themselves.
And whatever the season, I guess.
It only goes nicer in May.

Their face is an island of sanity
Amongst every gathering of loud, drunken and gross people
Overfilling the space even two hundred yards away ;
Those who make you change direction,
Not by security,
Yet for the sake of quietness.

Their silhouette is a shade of dignity
Amongst all predatory occupation of a street,
Or a simple byway.

They seem to walk their line,
And this lane of intimacy
I’d never mean to swerve.

I believe in you
Solitary girl, solitary boy.
Let the night be yours
And tomorrows be more sensible and reasoned.

You don’t behave like you want to hurt someone,
Or like you want to hurt yourself.
You don’t seem to believe that the earth is flat.
You just think better on your own.

And I believe in your thinking,
Whether I do agree or not with your thoughts.

I believe in your thinking,
And I believe in your walk.

—

(Drawing by Edward Hopper – « Night shadows »)

– Is it safe, is it sane ? –

Is it safe ?
Of course not
Is it deadly ?
Depends on the shot
Is it hurtful ?
Depends on your nerves

Every step is your potential fall,
Every leap of faith is when you recall
This is how you get over the wall

Is it sane ?
Of course not
Is it risky ?
By chance, quite a lot

Every break into the outside world
Can be the scariest experience ever,
But hell,
Is there a more unsafe area
Than the depths and width of your mind ?
Is there a more life-threatening moment
Than when you’re stuck into your brain wires,
And no one else talking to you
But your conscience of an absolute loss…

So let me be your otherness
If you ever sense you need one.
Let me fill the emptiness
When a soul mate you have none.

I mean you no harm,
I don’t bear any grudge
And I’ve taught my own arms
Not to unfold with urge

Is is safe, you wonder ?
Let us try
And if it hurts
We know why

—

(Painting by Edward Hopper – « Two comedians »)

That time of the century

It’s now, it’s that time of the century.
And all you can say is you’re ready.
The moment is yours, the future is born,
And it came a long way to capture your soul.
It dangles the cure by twisting a thorn,
Not for you to obey, yet to fix on your goal.
It scares and allures, invades any shore,
And you’re left as a prey, only few steps behind,
When you’re still unsure what phase you head for.
It knows you’re enslaved, like most in your kind,
Who’ll grow insecure at a free entry door,
At the suddenly paved avenue of their times.

And the moment is pure, and the light is reborn,
As it came a long way for to summon your prime ;
When life is obscured with all you had sworn
It clears enough days to freshen your mind.
Unless you adjourn a filtering dawn,
Abide in your haze and partly go blind,
This page you will turn, or soon will be torn,
You’re either in chase or easier to bind.

Oh, the strain you endure in your quest for more…
Every page has a lure, when not fully scored.
And the mourning is rude, yet no past you adorn,
Rewinding old views of the sculpture you’re from.
How brittle and crude, it was looking forlorn ;
If you played your own muse, well, embrace your freedom.

It’s now, it’s that time of a century.
And all you can swear is « I’m ready ».

—

(Tableau : André Devambez – « La Charge »)

(do not show) The OK version of yourself

Portrait-of-George-Dyer

—

The OK version of a song is never satisfying.
When you bring the effort in not screwing it up
Instead of wanting the song to be greater,
That’s playing defensive, that’s playing too modest.

Don’t be modest by the way.
If you avoid being pretentious too obviously,
It’ll always look, feel, or sound a bit restrained.

And the OK version of that song
Becomes a revealing feature
Of how you live your own life,
Scheme your plans, aim the next border, the next chapter,
Trying so hard not to fail
That you never succeed in the end.

If you deliver that OK version of yourself to the world,
Don’t expect any bigger consideration.
The world is not a secret talent searcher.
For better and often worse,
It only pays attention to an edge at the moment,
To a movement or idea so undeniable they can’t wait.
It only shows interest for greatness and stupidity,
Beauty and horror,
Naked truth and gross lies.

Oh wait,
Let’s be fair,
There’s another hook actually.
Being awkward, special, unusual, unexpected…
Yet not in a shy way :
See, you can’t just be weird on your own,
It has to mean something.

And it’s not « OK »
It’s not « alright ».
It’s you.

—

(Painting by Francis Bacon – « Portrait of George Dyer »)

Can’t hurt the pain.

Edvard-Munch-Vampyr-II-1896

—

You can’t hurt the pain.
Can’t make the grief suffer the way you do.
Nor cut a lifeless branch on a weak familiar tree,
Regardless of the shades unrolling over you,
From every last year’s leaf the spring will not renew.
You won’t kill what’s dead already,
Loathe what’s cold or vanished,
What no more will shine.
Even when the old flame surrounds you.

You do not heal,
But never grows the fatal wound,
Wishing you’d turn the stroke of fate
In a violent revenging blow.
By then you point the fist
Against your own shadow,
Unveil a clear target
For those of light beliefs,
Who hardly bare their chest,
And let their feelings go.
You look for mind relief,
In the balance we make
Between beauty and dirt.
Not amongst right or wrong,
Justice and crime.

You’re not the lawyer.
Because you feel, more than you judge.
You get to sense, more than you deem.

Then in the final repentence,
Here is the greatest of your deeds ;
If, as a living remembrance,
You are the one she requested
For the ultimate confidence,
Facing an almost departed.
The hand in debt will cure
What itself had branded.
And you will know the touch,
As you will know your pain,
But then also the prints
From a brotherly chain.
This major human link
Was never born in vain.

So you will have to lend
Your own uncertain hand,
All over bitterness,
Absence and loneliness.
Wide open for a mate
Not to a broken fate,
Not to a shred of history,
Nor a fallen memory.
Not to a leaving rest of life.

For you cannot hurt the pain.
She’ll lift you anyway.

And you shall forgive.

—

(Tableau : Edvard Munch – « Vampyr II »)

What is lost, and what must be won.

What is lost, and what must be won. (Photo by Escape Fantasy)

 

Now’s the time for us to accept
That what is lost is better at rest.
In hours and days,
We acknowledge the cost.
Yet how to repay
For what you lack the most,
Why dream you had stayed
In these arms of your host,
When it don’t make a difference,
You’re ten lives away…
It is gone in the distance,
You just followed your way.

Then here comes the time for you to incline
To the feeling of loss
And not having a choice,
Even still it resounds familiar in tune,
And you’ve been here before,
So, you must be immune,
In truth you had more than just no other way,
But you needed to feel it could stop any day.

Now you’re reaching the point
When you’d better assume
How, from this dawn until the last you consume,
All you didn’t once do, as bridges you burn,
All you couldn’t live through, however returns.
It’s your every day’s due, now what must be won.
And no further rescue if damage is done.

Everything gets old nowadays.

Everything gets old nowadays_visual
—

Everything gets old nowadays.
Aging faster than it used to be,
Or we just felt agreed.
Aging faster from a week to another,
Even from the last till the next hour.
Habits get older as quick as they come,
Our best behaviour tomorrow’s bygone.
In a reset of thoughts do we find a new shelter,
And by playing the ghosts, can we manage to linger.

Everything’s past in a few days,
Whatever the mood, or emotional phase.
It burns out way fuller, blows sooner to decay,
Than it sure would at first or only months away.
And there’s a hunger and thirst always willing to grow ;
Yet the moment it bursts you don’t want it to slow,
Then consume all it’s worth, and now older it shows…

But you know, these days,
Everyone changes anyways.
Faster than a postcard,
Than whatever nice people say.
And there’s a reason your hair would suddenly gray,
Only time is made such a bitter reward,
You wish it never would catch you off guard…

But everything gets old nowadays.
Way faster than it used to,
Or we once knew.
Faster from a dreaming to its nightmare,
From hope to despair.
Until it don’t even seem you just might care.

I didn’t wave goodbye to yesterday,
More, I forgot which was the day.
Don’t know what this life used to be,
The chain is set apart from me.

No word was told, one passed the other by.
Is it too old for us to even try ?
Who’d say hello ? That’s from another time.
The way things go, now’s everybody’s crime.

And life would spin along, just as an endless play,
These years of turning wrong, we knew might have a stay.
I never waved goodbye to yesterday,
It was so long departed anyway.
Nor even cried so much for the old world,
It left too many wishes never heard.