music

take the music away — i'm not sure if i'll survive
until now, noone did, for the heartbeat is also music
when the humans appeared, the cosmos was going live
with those podcasts that streamed songs of lullabies, love and losing

take the music away — and i promise, i'll go insane
songs that fill up my holes are the only existing savior
while we pity ourselves, while we never do stop complain,
play the music that makes you endurable, stronger, braver

while the world's going crazy with small talks and hiding dreams,
first of all, from themselves, then from every related human,
there's a special place in your head tailor-made, it seems,
for your infinite what ifs and maybes and just assumings

then you nervously bang on a table, impatient, dumb
with your fear: that's rhythm of loneliness, longing, grieving,
that's the tune of your «mama, just look at what i've become»,
that's your own composition on difficulties of leaving

take the music away — and i swear, there's nothing left,
just a planet of lost and unbearable lonely creatures
pressing «pause» on your player is humankind's biggest theft,
silence's great 'till the moment you realize what it features

act

the world is your playground. act.
if there is the only fact
to show you it's so much fun —
that's proven by anyone

the second you're out of bed,
take care of the things you've said,
while words can define your day,
think hard of the things you say

there's always an awesome choice:
the words can create a noise,
or shoot, or involve you in
the ultimate shame or sin

the world is your playground. do
things you don't believe into:
i bet you'll survive the fright
and learn that they turned out right

and look who has turned up here:
stand up and embrace your fear
that's one of the precious toys
that teaches you or destroys

so play with it and persuade
you're ready to get afraid,
cause after it disappears,
you're stronger than all your fears

the world is your playground. act.
if something will stay intact
and put on the highest shelf —
i hope it won't be yourself.

Jim

Jim was twenty. An age when you're ready to win,
even if there aren't any battles
He just thought that there doesn't exist any sin,
but that's bad if there's someone who settles:

it's so tacky to settle and trendy to move
to the lands that are constantly changing
from the people not ready to travel and groove
and from those who are too prearranging.

Jim was awesome. His family missed him a bit —
well, they still haven't seen him for years.
Like a lighter that's up to be ready and lit,
he was ready to lands and frontiers.

But when those whom he luckily met on his way
asked of family, background and vision,
he was ready to run (cause was scared to say
that his illness was called indecision).

the race

the poetry of a backdoor, a sudden flash -
you're quitting as soon as possible, time is out
your wonderful plan resulted as one more crash
your precious chance, oh what was it all about

the poetry of a loser, just one more time:
you didn't succeed so pack up your things and leave
in chasing your luck instead of a real dime
an honesty losing everything to the thieves

the mystical backyard, guess what was never there -
a thing you imagined, marvelous magic door,
your customs to wonders, anything to declare,
an excuse to vanish, leaving them count to four

the poetry of surrounded - they'll count to one
then slowly encircle everyone that you've got
and leave you no weapons, no single chance to run,
one option to prove you're worth their only shot

the poetry of the wisest: if you survive
then you'll be the ones with rare protective fold
the race that you're in infrequently leaves alive,
but those who can make it usually take the gold.

imperfection

it tastes like a nepalese snow smells like indian curry
it hits every brain oh so hard and is known by so little
in every notorious rush, in the fire and hurry
in every responsible human that's so noncommittal

it always has started with love, what a wonderful feeling
until it has slapped you and left you with nothing to wait for
from "give me your left cheek" and self-irreplaceable kneeling
to going through ultimate challenge of "i'll call you later"

it hurts like a knife in your stomach it tears you to pieces
it drives you to endless divisors of self intersection
it never shows up in the mirrors and always increases
and never dissolves cause the name of it is imperfection