River Flows In Me

Hard on my self before knowing. But on the other side I really hate most things. I am a cynical bastard. But at least a better bastard then most of theme out there. And how do you become one? When you realize that you will not do what you desire the most in this world. It puts you on the grounds of thinking. And you become loud in your mind. It's like loud wind on a silent perfect night. I am still searching for my lullaby. To many noises when I try to sleep, nothing calms me down any more. Will you be my lullaby? I think it's a fair question. Just not saying it to the right person. And it probably never will be said. Always threaten by details. But always seeing it. Can I really offer you my troubles? Or do you live in a fairytale? I don't know my future. And I ask my self questions every day. Where is the alternative? I have been waiting for a very long time. Amazing that I came this far. Don't want to gave my secrets away. And I don't want a perfect life. I just want life. Because this is definitely not it. Is it worth existing if you do not achieve what you want?

A river flows in me.

Michael

Publish My Love

I want to wake up with a singular purpose. Just to despite the odds of my capability to do so. Broken in so many ways it's become ridiculous. Ridiculous cause I don't have to be broken. My believe is strong and realistic. But still some things are still uncertain. The unnecessary is strongly fixed in my being. No noticed on the horizon just simple traps around me. And not always watching my steps. I am just to tired doing that. Hate me good if you have to hate me at all. Can ideas be even more unexpected? I hate theme because of there timing. Never is the good time to come. And then they come. Just a face can bring something. Something almost unwritable. But it can be done. Just the right space is missing. Or a better mind. A better working mind. Secretly hoping to get on my own way. But it's still not written in my path. Florence is my place to be. She gives me comfort and despite the obvious, she makes me smile. It is not the force of publishing that is thriving me, it just a side that knows that I am better then most of column writers. A small market for a small person. One of the saddest thing I know.

Quit and soft. Now undeniable thing for me. Know me or not, those are my two precious gifts and also curses. Just for know I still am. But I am loosing my mind, I hope in a writable way, so I am at least interesting to be around. If not, I found a new level of boring.

Michael

How To Be

On purpose I suffer with desire. Before I did't write, there was nothing. Now it's something. How to carry a bag which is full of words and weights nothing? Do I even carry it around with me? An empty bag is telling a story for others not for me. I don't count. Pale and stressful are most occasion with a question how to be. To much stupidity around me makes the words even harder to write and a bag even lighter to carry. I hate people who wishes rain on someone on which they are angry with. Rain is a savior. The land is given a new opportunity to flourish, like I am given an opportunity for right words when I take a break. Given the mistakes in the past and a growing talent I feel filed with new strength. Strength does not come from physical capacity, it comes from indomitable will. It's time for the real words for a story. It's time to get the past writing in to work. It's time to get limited worlds working. Things need to get out of control. Don't hate evolving. It's just another side of life. The continuation of How To be is, How to be published?

A part of me is satisfied, but I want to publish that satisfaction. Less words for you, more for trying. But not forgetting you.

Michael

Meaning Is Overrated

Leave me out on the rain. I prefer it. If you are not capable of passion, you are not able to understand me or the world. Still can't get the freedom out of my head. Still have to many objectives and influence around to get my writing out on a paper. Still a feeling is too overwhelming to be where I want to be. And that is in a free zone of writing. No catches, no pretend, no conspicuous minds. Just me and my keyboard. Allowing to set my own rules and also honor the rules that exist. Let me out. Leave me out. My creativity is suffering. There for I am suffering. It's nothing better then selected control. Control suffering. I don't know how I even do it. I came a long way. From some one who's purpose was lost, but then suddenly found. Or the purpose was never challenged and it was just unmeaningful living. It happens. To much for my book. But that what it's going to be about. Unmeaningful living. Not seeking beauty but making one up. To better the path, to put solid rock on Wood. The meaning will be hidden in it's meaningfulness writing and living. Or the meaning could be made up? That is an option. To made it up, just too put a even bigger twist on my suffering. Could it be that the making sense part is made up and lost? I am loosing my self right now. Where was I?A, out in rain, alone. Where meaning is probably overrated. How to describe rain, where no one like's it but you? Like this. My rain falls with passion.

Michael