what concerns me
me
indignation rest
reaffirms my passive activity
my eyes but I do not look pass through the dreams
and I forget who I am
screaming my fears but I do not hear
thrive and they come to light and
not my pain does not stop my tears on silent
and then the desire to
in indignation.
hmm .... this poem was written in September .... I do not know if you can understand it ... and if anyone does, I do not know .... even more so well ... I usually would not write this ... but something in me resists, the poem just like that, without quick note on my part to release from .... To explain what I mean ... well ... believe that, so I have no sense, because "who does not understand my silence, of course not my words, "to quote here something, what's wrong in my opinion .... well ... what the heck .... what I write here will probably pass without any special meaning to the reader ... it will probably be written in it .... no sense to have this or will they? causes it but maybe that I do not think that I still had something to write .... but no ... it is not cause ... because my comment is meaningful without even why I am also reassure or satisfy it is to have written ... well ... maybe it is, where no sense, yet there to be I in retrospect it ... can write to me to deal with other than what me .... now employs ... who is not this what I write, of course, may well live soothes ... who understands and knows what I mean .... who understands what concerns me ... I can only conclude with tears in his eyes in the poor ... we'll make it ... But perhaps this feeling is still present in everyone and everyone knows it well ... now ... so be it .... I know my people ... my lonely people ... but maybe I just sinking in grief too painful to avoid even greater? maybe I weave me a dress from it to make it to live ever again ... or maybe I'm just waiting ... and perhaps these lines I only write a memory of what has been ... and maybe it's just daydreaming ... and perhaps it is pointless to me seem to have written, just like I did last pointless ... and yet ... also, in every sense without the afflicted, the interwoven with sorrow, or perhaps self-pity eaten me liable ... perhaps it has become familiar ... or maybe these are the memorable line, only the sounds of the old kindled in me ... one last bitter cry, one last tear it out of the hope, one last time before all the memories of the past .... and entrusted and yet perhaps all these lines lie only just a dream, only madness that has formed in deep mourning and the fantasy ... well it may be that I wake up soon ... well it may be that what I write and wrote only is delusional .... now ... so be it ... but perhaps it is a piece of my injured soul .... maybe they should be remedied on or be cured on .... now ... I think maybe .... or is it? as it is .... Now, I do not know ... maybe I'll see it, understand perhaps ... but if not ... now, then be that as it ... I can not stop ... or is it? now ... perhaps I mean this .... or not ... or I do not want it .... neither promote nor hinder, or even believe the same is not ... Perhaps it is this ... Perhaps it has to be decided, maybe not ... and perhaps this is just spinning .... it may be ....
and then the wille
up in indignation.
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