Writing is like melody,
it is like an old brown bag,
filled with words,
that give no sense.
When I wake up,
they speak a language,
a language of the wild,
running in errands,
and not giving any sense.
They wanna make an argument,
giving me a hard time,
wanting to understand,
and forgetting the relaxedness.
Just waking up,
in the morning’s sight,
and they are running,
in the sleeps waking hours.
Let us tackle it that way,
no the other one is better,
but have you thought about this,
and the other thing as well?
Will they tell me,
and give no calmness.
They are interwoven,
and they are wonderess.
They are everywhere,
and they are nowhere.
They are running in errands,
with no name,
creating weirdness,
in the early hours.
What do I do with them,
Strike them,
balance them,
fight them?
What do I do with them?
The thoughts of the day?
Write them down,
and analyze them?
Give them weight,
and power over me?
Or let them sink in,
and believe in them for good?
But what are they?
Who are they?
Where do they come from?
And where do they go?
Do they want to tell me something?
Should I listen?
Or should I better let them go,
disappear in the morning’s loudness?