promise me that I'm safe as houses.

I sit here and drool out a play, plucked from my very own feathers
these feathers--
they are neither an owls nor from the breast of a canary.
A dramatic scenery, a set on stage
of reality as it should be.
As reality as I dream of; and in these blackouts and scenes
I have you and not them, I
can still reach him and
the one person I long to tell me,
that there is still a glimmer of love in their heart for my faint,
fluttering excuse of one and--;
but never mind that
I want to tell you about this panic.
The panic and the race for accomplishment towards
a
goal
that is always death.

Some may say I have a severe death wish.

I say, to all of you, youre life was built lacking in honesty.
Or, mayhaps, distrust?
Choose, fair sir; I just want you to hold my hand.

Is there not enough pain between us?
Do we have to have this at all?
It's never, ever a question of faith:
I would give my life to a god that never existed, maybe,
if he licked Nutella off my toes.
But I know god wouldn't.
Besides.
I dont like having my toes licked.


I want an endless handful of smiles,
I wish you were with me, here
and I wish you wanted the same.