Timing, Fate… Whatever (Part 1)
Sometimes love is a vulgar word
Sometimes hate calls itself peace on the nightly news
I’ve heard saints preaching truths that would have burned me at the stake
I’ve heard poets telling lies that made me believe in heaven.
I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me — the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
There are people who can build
miniature cities so believable
you can’t tell the difference in a picture.
You do the same with love.
In that city
where we were set free
We sought for things
to fill our time
the cracks of our lonely
young, young hearts
Sorry I was late for Valentine’s.