i want to write a poem on a Sunday evening,
but all i am left with is just mere questions..
a bended line with a dot for every answer,
i am having a surreal feeling,
i feel odd..
because i am a surreal painter
yet it seems i am new to this..
scratching my head,
like my hands are paint brush moving back and forth on a stained canvas..
this tears are just like linseed oil,
blending with the soil..
a glimpse of raw umber,
same as the color of my skin...
slowing gathering all photos and information about you,
opening the recycle bin...
thinking,
crying,
breathing heavy...
will i hit delete?
or will i choose cancel?
neither the two i will still cry,
save irene, delete irene...
my finger on the trigger,
slowly head bowed down eyes closed...
putting pressure on the trigger,
double click?
am i sure to delete?
left with option,
and a choice...
delete it and be hurt so much more now,
or press cancel and suffer for ever?
now thats a good set of choices,
it may be sound awful today,
but not as awful as for ever if i hit cancel..
i am not doing it for myself,
but for you irene,
its not your fault
were both unclean...
some body owns you now,
i had to live some how...
irene,
my favorite star,..
i want to be near you,... but...?
some body holds you now,
some body owns you now...
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