It’s becoming harder,
so harder, rising
from my sofa every morning,
battling with gravity, battling

my own thoughts, which pour
poison on their memories,
an old album of forgotten names,
but not forgotten feelings.

Some days it’s easy,
there is nothing to lose,
no reason to rise, to feel,
no point to work, to feed,

there is no urge to remember;
there is just a hole
with many black dots,
no point to grieve, to commit.

Other days, I feel no reason
to enjoy the amount of love,
to add up the conversation
with the family, or friends,

but there are mornings,
when sleeping is the only option,
a vivid, sweet escape,
from this grey world in which I live.

Sometimes, I feel young enough,
to dare to have nothing,
so much to lose and to feel,
that potential dying of the self,

that feeling of life,
as the only thing, I thought that was spiritual
and pure and innocent,
I called it poetry.

But this is time and flesh
and love and friends;
It makes me want to live another day,
It makes me tear another page.