He walks the street
head tilded down
looking at his feet,
sticked to his fase a false-positive frown.
If you ask his friends,
if you can find he has some,
what's he like, what's with that sadness crown?
You'll get an answer, oh so sweet:
His just like us, good old regular creep.
He don't care about the current trends,
he don't care when the valentine day comes.
He don't even invest in relationships.
His just like us, a good old regular creep.
He walks his daily lonely walk,
and talks his daily shopping talk:
Buys a pack of beer and a frozen pizza,
get's home, puts on some tones
and lights a smoke then dream…
Selged säravad tähed pilvitul taevavõlvil,
kui universumi salasilmad.
Neile ulataks käe usaldusvalmilt
ja ühendaks ilmad.
Kollendunud lehtede krõbin kruusasel teel,
tulede ja varjude mäng,
samm sammu järel reas on veel,
hinges tühjus ja rahulik äng.
Kodu silmad on kinni
ja kardin on ees.
Võti lukus käib ringi,
enam polegi teel.
Ma istun poe treppil,
see pood ammu on suletud,
silm peatub kuivanud hekkil,
tunnen olen hüljatud.
Ma istun, et aeg saaks otsa,
ikka istun aga, miski kurat ei lõppe!
Kirun siis seda vihma,
mis külmalt võtab mind oma rüppe.
Ma istun ja miski mind neelab,
tahab mind endaga liita ühte.
Ma istun kuni uni mind istumast keelab,
ei põle laternad, pole enam valgusevahte.
Ma istun pisut veel,
kunagise poe treppil, oma maja ees.
Teen ühe suitsu ja siis lähen vaatan,
kes kurat elab mu unenäo…
Nagu südamesse löödud nael,
meenub su lustakas naer.
Mäletad veel mind,
saab haigeks hing.
Nagu tuhmund mälestus tunnedest,
mis tormis saab selgeks kui päike.
Sirutan käe sinupoole lainetest,
paljastab mu pisarad äike.
Kraban tühja,
see vaid peegeldus endisest,
ootan lihtsalt,
midagi su armuandidest.
Chasing my bliss from the bottom of bottle,
finding only Death's kiss, oh brother why bother?
Shaking hands writing a suicide note,
like the girl friend said life ain't a popularity vote.
Trying to forget, trying to escape,
hitting the delete, bye netscape.
Looking through old letter that somebody wrote,
wishing happy birthday as i slit my own throat.
Waking to aching in my head,
looking at a desk and a messed up bed.
Finding this poem, it all was a dream,
a desperate attention junkie's scream.