Flute diary

Mmm. I remember doing homework.
Feelings like the devil torturing me with a plastic fork.

More on psychology.
Than ecology.

Joints, muscles, knees.
The desire not to be stuck behind keys.

Siting straight, disciplined next to the window.
Supporting my dreams with my tired elbow.

Holding the pen, breathing intoxicating ink.
Definitely not an ideal morning.

Mainly at a young age.
In a beautiful time, resisting the fear of the stage.

Remarkable, the road to character.
Maybe more than an optimistic doctor.

What I considered as a crime,
these days I understand as an inevitable part of time.

Without the ritual.
I would be a dead individual.

Probably with cut veins.
Like a puddle moved everyday by trains.

Due to black and white emotions.
Washing the soul with the intuition of oceans.

Yeah, sometimes unjustified hate.
Is exchanged by nutritious faith.

In a second chance.
Does it make sense?

Low budget instrument.
No noble sentiment.

Humble piece of an empty page.
Powerful enough to liberate pain from a jelly cage.

Never-ending commitment, rewarded by rejection.
Deep knowledge, punished with wrong selection.

A random compliment ended with pricey arguments.
A night walk destroying horny ants.

Or celebration.
That changed the attitude towards the entire nation.

Everything good and bad.
Intentionally transformed away, out of the head.

True bravery.
To be an adult, recording your life into a diary.

I don’t mean writing requests to a unicorn.
Or write threats to guys wearing the blue uniform.

I mean, have a conversation with that version.
Soaking lessons despite pension.

A blanket waving in the rhythm of music.
The back touching the cold brick.

Always, persistently building a relationship.
Mmm. Simple word, so unusually deep.

Hands tired mostly during autumn and winter.
Desperately needing the regeneration of a sprinter.

Outside, quiet, dark clouds.
Inside, lonely, slowly destroying sounds.

In you I found a new best friend.
Listening from beginning to end.

No questions, laughter, knock down.
Any attributes representing a pessimistic clown.

Yeah, sometimes marked by salt coming from eye drops.
Always opening the right maps.

Loyalty during an entire existence.
Who would have thought that sadness can be cured with a sentence?

Empathy during an entire existence.
Cursing, suicidal thoughts, craziness – forever recorded evidence.

I would also have your strength and glory.
Keeping calm in any part of the story.

Those, claiming words, are cheap.
Probably owning a soul more shallow than deep.

Thanks to words, I defeated many demons.
More insidious and cruel than bitter, yellow lemons.