White spot

 

I have so many questions

if the kisses come ashore safely

if I save something and am weighed down

hardly ever before did I go 

         through the same hell

that's what I'm trying to fix

if it helps to scream

if it helps to open sunken suitcases

old drops from heavy gasps

old questions from a long time ago

a wasteland that saves me and lifts me up.

 

There's something inside my head

it's probably something with my genes

it's a bit messy and feels dead

like there were white reindeer

when I curl my lip and get tics

hunted by fear

it's because it hurts

it's because I have a white spot

somewhere that feels sick

somewhere that isn't

in everything that I'm not.

 

I measure up my field of joy

and you still point out all the gray tones

it's a mystery how I'll get through saved

the desolate cracks indicate 

                   frostbite in the old shed

from the drops that fall and are counted

the knife blade in my pencil sharpener

makes me the surgeon of the soul

a cradle that rules so king

a field of joy of unbridled pain

the foaming gallows of the day 

                                 every day hangs me.

 

There's something inside my head

it's probably something with my genes

it's a bit messy and feels dead

like there were white reindeer

when I curl my lip and get tics

hunted by fear

it's because it hurts

it's because I have a white spot

somewhere that feels sick

somewhere that isn't

in everything that I'm not.