Poems

Hello and welcome to my blog. I am John Loraine and I am a poet and a writer. Check out my new book, a collection of poems “My poems my soul.” Thank you for reading. Cheers!

Poem: Working man

~ John Loraine


I get up at six every morning, rain or shine
Not because I want to but because I have to.
The world is still sleeping, and it is still dark in the room,
And it is difficult to open my eyes, tired from the night’s sleep.
I turn off the alarm and lay there with my eyes shut.
Just one more minute, please God, just another minute.
That last minute in bed is the shortest in my day,
But it is the time I enjoy the most.
Five days a week is the definition of a work day.
I go to the bathroom, pee, and brush my teeth.
The shower is next, and I wait patiently until the
Water is warms up enough to get under it and soak in it
Like a flower on the driest day.
I am rinsing the fatigue and the sleep of me
The new day has come.
I get out and get dressed; the kitchen stop next.

I brew my morning coffee next and walk outside to warm my car.
The engine roars with pain from the overnight hangover
Spitting out the clouds of fumes out of the exhaust and into the
Fresh morning air.
I sigh with relief as the twenty-years-old engine is still alive
And the car will take me to the place which feeds me.
I grab my stuff and walk out of the house, locking the door,
As my family is still sleeping upstairs.
With a mug of coffee in one hand and a laptop case in another,
I am ready for the day, whatever it brings.
Rolling out of the neighborhood while most of the neighbors
Are still at home, I listen to the latest morning news:
The state of the economy, the stock market forecast,
And the futures are down, and so am I
As the inflation is rising, as is my blood pressure,
The rate cuts are still far away, and the new IPOs are waiting.
The politics is still in deep shit, but this is how it’s always been.
Radio keeps me company along my way
And in about one hour and fifteen minutes,
I will be clocking in at work.

I see those people in their cars, sitting there in traffic,
Trying to get somewhere this morning.
I don’t see too many happy faces. Why would I?
We all are on our way to the places we hate, but this is how life works.
This is why we work all the time, even while sitting in traffic over the bridge,
We think about the day’s work, and there is nothing good to look forward to.

The office sounds busy, with all those people arriving at work,
Some people are chatty, laughing and smiling, and some are just
The ghosts of themselves. They know they have to be here,
But there is no desire, no inspiration, no life in it.
Some days at work are quiet, and I like it that way,
Some are busy and not my favorite, but still
For the next eight hours, I have to be here. I have to serve.
The next thing I know is the lunch hour.
The best time during the workday, any day.
The lunch room is packed as all of them are here to eat
And chat, and laugh and talk business, or whatever.
I am hungry too, but I’d prefer a quiet place with nobody around.
I eat my painful meal and watch all those people around me,
They, just like myself, have no other choice.
The afternoon hours are the longest, as always.
No matter what you do or don’t do, the time is moving too slowly.
At five, I pack without even thinking about any unfinished work
As I know, it will still be here tomorrow, waiting for me
To get done, to get finished. But I am finished with it now.
I am done for the day.
The parking lot looks like the fire drill in action,
With all those cars lined up at the gates waiting to get out.
Nobody wants to stay here any longer, and neither do I.
I join the evening traffic miserably, just like all of them, to get back home.
The home, that sacred place you spend your life to maintain and finance,
And yet you spend the least amount of time there.
I see the angst in those faces driving right beside me.
They always look like they’ve had enough.
They’re tired, confused, desperate, and lifeless.
Something has been eating their souls all day long
And they are free from all of that, as least until tomorrow.

I get back home one and a half hours later
And everything seems a bit better now.
I open the doors, and the kid runs towards me smiling,
He wants to play with me right away.
I look around the house as everything is a mess with
all those toys are scattered all around.
I know I’ll have to clean it up later; nobody else will do it.
My seven-month-pregnant wife is on the couch; she’s tired.
She was tired of being tired, and the weight of
The new child inside her tired her down.
We eat dinner together with some small talk,
The kid is getting anxious and wants to watch TV.
I am exhausted, but I finish my plate, and we play.
We play for the next two hours or so, and then we take a bath and
Then he goes to sleep with his mother, just like he’s used to.
I stay a while to clean up all the mess in the dishes and remove the trash.
I pay my bills, check my emails, and prepare for another day.
I go to bed with a book in my hands, and I sleep for the next five hours
Like they are everything I have.
The man is down, and it’s time to check out for the day.
Tomorrow will be yet another one, and so it goes, and so it goes
Until we are alive, the battle continues, and so it does.

Poem: I don’t know why…

~ John Loraine


I don’t know why I cry in my sleep
I don’t know why, but I do.
I don’t know why I cry in my sleep
Something must be given away
Something must be crying for help
Something deep inside, hidden under the
Layers and layers of bullshit,
Something that I’ve hidden so well all these years.
Something that only escapes when I can’t.
And I’m stuck, feeling trapped in this darkness
And misery, and shit.
I don’t know why I cry when I sleep
It could be just a dream, I guess.
It could be that I just can’t pretend anymore
As I am sleeping, dropping my guard,
Laying there unguarded and naked and free,
Waiting for the morning to come and for
The new day to begin, to start anew.
I wish I could start this life from scratch,
But years went by like this, and so many things
I cannot get back anymore,
They’re lost in the holes of history,
There are no returns.
Maybe I’ll just let it go for a while,
Let the misery leave me as these tears
Rolling down my face, wetting my pillow,
Waking me up, sobering me up,
Getting myself ready, making myself
Understand.
I think I like it like that,
Let it go, let it go. It’s going to be just fine.

Poem: It’s 1 am in the morning

~ John Loraine ~ 1 Comment


It’s 1 am in the morning or at night,
As I sit here on my backyard patio
Smoking my cigarettes, thinking my thoughts.
And the wind picks up and rolls the dead leaves on the ground
Letting me know that the summer was over.
It is over, man. All over.
As the cigarette burns and the trees shake off the dead leaves
And I sit here and wonder,
Getting more drunker and older and cold.
I am on my seventh beer, and the night is still young.
But sadly, I am not young anymore, as I age by the minute
Rolling through my life like the dry yellow leaves blown by the wind,
Out of my mind and out of my youth.
I am not getting younger, but I always wanted to be strong,
To be a true man, gentleman, to be an independent person.
But I am so weak as I still depend on so many things
Like those cigarettes, like that beer, like that night,
Like those leaves and the trees in my backyard.
The air is getting colder, and the wind blows harder,
And I know I have to get back inside.
I have to get back to the house,
To my family, to my bed, to my life.
It is Friday night in Pennsylvania,
And all I have is another six hours of sleep
And another six-pack of beer, and there’s
Another three cigarettes left in the pack
To keep me going through the night like a renegade,
Like a monster, like a lost soul.
And just like that, another new poem came to be.
A fresh new poem after a while.
And I am happy to have you again.
It’s been a long time, my friend,
It’s been a long life.

Poem: In the darkness of the muddy waters

~ John Loraine ~ 3 Comments

Unwanted, unneeded, unfit, rejected.
Society is still out there, doing its thing
But you are not part of it anymore, any longer.
You used to be there, and you had that spark in your eyes
But the tides have shifted, and now
You’re drowning in the darkness of the muddy waters,
Eating shit with shellfish, and seaweed, and sadness.
Sitting all alone in the darkness, chainsmoking
And pouring more wine in your glass bought on credit,
You’ve seen the better days, some days before.
Now, all you can see is the misery and despair.
There is a cold spring wind blowing in the night
The cigarette is feeling cold, too.
There is no job tomorrow and nowhere to go,
There is just more of this emptiness and cigarette smoke.
You’ve had your success, and you’ve been down before,
But each time, it feels like it’s the worst one yet.
This fucking life always goes up and down
And you have to learn to play this game sometime.
People meant to live, and people meant to die,
People meant to suffer, and people meant to survive.
I am fighting hard, but my fighting with myself,
Killing my shadow in the uneven match.
The moon is up high, and there are planes in the sky
Going somewhere.
The stars are all there and have no other business but shine.
You were the star once, and you’ve shone bright and high,
But even the stars do go down once in a while.
And you went down to the lowest of the low,
The lowest you’ve ever been, with all that success in the past.
There will be tomorrow and some more days in your life
You’ll figure out living as you’re learning to die.

Poem: There is a tunnel…

~ John Loraine ~ Leave a comment


The voice that soothes the soul
The eyes as deep as the ocean
The face reflects love, sadness, and loneliness,
And the attitude like nobody else’s.
I listen, I watch, I admire
I want you to be here with me
Sitting on the couch, side-by-side.
I want to light your cigarette
And listen to you singing your songs
To me, in the darkness of the night
In the lonely room for two
With some red wine in our glasses
And the youth to share with each other
Until the sun comes up, and as the daylight breaks in
And we are both tired and happy
Falling asleep next to each other
In the room filled with love, passion, and sex,
Where the time stands still, and the lonely
Cigarette buds sitting in the ashtray
As we embrace each other on the king-size bed
And there is nobody else, and there is no tomorrow.
It is us, right here, right now, and until
We are together and in love, and we have
Something only we can understand.
We have something in common.
We have us and our cigarettes and wine,
And my books and your records and our passion.
We have it all at this moment.

Poem: Working-class heroes

~ John Loraine ~ Leave a comment


Grey morning instead of a great morning
Friday is the best day of the week
When you know, the bullshit will be over after today, and you
Can live your life again, just like you always wanted.
There will be no jobs, no work shit, and no bullshit to deal with
It will be you and your family and your life for a moment.
Men spend their lifetime building a career,
Climbing the stairway to corporate hell
Six-figure salaries, bonuses,
And the best benefits you can find around.
Nothing is too few. Nothing is enough.
The hunger for more blinds you.
It is all there is on this fruit tray with poison.
This is your poison pill.
Once taken twice shy.
Take your chance to free yourself.
Half of what you make goes to the Uncle,
Another half would cover the debt.
What’s left for you?
After those never-ending jobs?
What is left of you, and your soul
When you sit all alone in a dark room.
You need the job to feed yourself.
Then the job starts eating you alive, like a fucking snack,
Like a drive-thru burrito.
You become the product, and you become the food.
You become a slave of modern society.
All you ever want is to live a normal life.
A working-class hero is no better than an
Working-class slave. What’s the difference?
There is none. None of you can make a choice
Not to have a job, not to work for somebody.
A man is a man when he is still a man.
The job is the job until it starts eating into man’s soul.
And then it becomes torture.
The man is more of a man when he refuses to enslave himself
For meaningless jobs that take away his life.
A man is a man when a man can fight to survive.
The working-class heroes are always busy these days.

Poem: My shit’s out of luck again

~ John Loraine ~ 72 Comments


My shit’s out of luck yet again
As I pour down the cold Heineken down my
Poor sorry-ass throat.
The wents are turning right above the yellow light bulbs
At the local bar where I drink.
They don’t give a fuck that I am down on my luck
They don’t give a fuck either way
All they had to do is to keep spinning
Running the alcohol-infused air around.
There are TV sets all around the bar, but they
Show and tell you nothing
They are a distraction from real life.
There is loud music playing in the bar
Making the cold beer go down smoothly.
My shit’s been out of luck
My life’s been out of luck
I guess this is what it is, and everything
Is fucked.
The end of one thing is just the new beginning
The old life ends following a new one
I am down on my luck as there hasn’t been much
And I pour another beer down
I’ve been down this road before
And the present does repeat my past
I will be out of this shit in no time
I think I’ll just have to do my best.
Cheers to all of you poor shmucks
Who feel just like I do today
Remember, there will be sunshine
On our street some day.
As the wind blew the fallen leaves down the street
My six-figure salary was blown away
Just like that.

Poem: The road

~ John Loraine ~ 9 Comments


Every road leads somewhere,
Even if you are going with no directions.
There will be stops, and turns, and exits,
But the road always goes on
As long as you are.
You should follow your destination.
Even if you don’t have one
Something will come along and
You will see the signs.
You will feel them,
You will see the light eventually.
There is a long road ahead of you
As you barely started this trip
On this never-ending highway.
Life is always rough.
It should be.
This is how you grow.
This is how you learn.
This is how you develop.
This is how you move forward.
This is what will keep you going.
This is what will make you go
Following the road,
Following the path,
And eventually finding yours.
There will be traffic on your way,
Exits, bridges, and dead ends.
But you will have to find your way out.
You might get lost sometimes,
But if you keep searching
You will find and reach your destination.
You will find where you belong in this life.

The sun is up and shinning,
It is shinning in your face
Making you feel happy, helping you see better.
It could also blind you, too, preventing you from seeing
Your path clearly.
You always got to keep moving forward.
Until you can
Until there is no life in you left, no energy
And passion for something.
Even if you don’t know what it is
Things eventually will turn around.
Things will come about.
Solutions will present themselves eventually.
You just got to keep on moving, keep going,
Keep following your path,
Keep following your road to the unknown.
Go straight ahead and never look back.
The past is behind you.
The past will not help you build your present.
The past will not help you build your future.
You are building your future today, right now.
For a better tomorrow,
Or worst, depending on what you do.
You just got to keep going,
Keep going.
There will be many destinations on your way.
There will be many obstacles in your way.
You have to be mindful.
You have to be careful.
Enjoy the ride.

Poem: What killed Beethoven

~ John Loraine ~ 6 Comments


It rains outside this early grey morning,
And Ludwig van Beethoven is playing for me and nobody else.
I read in the newspaper today about the cause of his death from
The latest study which revealed that he died of
Cirrhosis of the liver and hepatitis B
From too much drinking.
Poor Ludwig, the genius, one of the major composers
Died completely deaf, shitting his pants with his liver falling on him
At age 56, some 196 years ago.
Well, this is interesting and sad news at the same time.
All creative people are doomed people
All creative people are suffering people
All creative people have demons inside them
All creative people are fighting the darkness
With substances while creating the art
To be lived for centuries or forever.
He could’ve been a regular family man,
Working a merchant job somewhere in Vienna,
Raising a family and eating dinner with them every evening
Going to work and paying his bills on time.
That wasn’t an option for him, though.
He was too big for that. He sure was something larger than
The average working guy trying to survive.
He created some of the best immortal music
For all of us to enjoy, and humanity will cherish that music forever
While poor Ludwig suffered miserably for his craft,
Fighting his demons and eventually losing
The fight of all fights.

While Beethoven was on his deathbed, somebody snipped
a lock of his hair.
The lock of his hair with today’s modern technology
Helped scientists figure out the cause of this death.
The analysis of his DNA told all the secrets,
And more.
Poor Ludvig, you can rest in peace now,
Your music lives on and still brings the highest
Quality of anything ever created.
That fucking lock of hair exposed you as an alcoholic
What the fuck do these kids know about the
Life of a genius from two hundred years ago?
By the way, they still don’t know what caused his early hearing loss
Or his gastrointestinal issues.
And also, somebody way back then in that family tree
Has been unfaithful, as the research suggests.
That fucking Y chromosome knows best.

Poem: Success

~ John Loraine ~ 11 Comments


Success tastes like great fucking champagne.
Not the local bullshit
But something foreign,
Something that is from far away, and
Something that tastes like nothing special
Until you know the price per bottle,
Then you appreciate it.
You sip it, sip by sip and
The feeling of the chilled bobbles in your throat
Registered in your mind for a moment
And then the dry finish aftertaste, which tastes like an ass, but it’s an
Expensive big ass success that you’ve achieved
Through all these years of hard work.
Nothing will ever taste like this anymore.
It is like popping the cherry,
Not the most pleasant but one of the most memorable events.
Your crisp white dress shirt pressed against your body,
The body of the successful man
With a bright chest, breathing smoothly
With a smirk on your face
With a fire in your eyes
That burns fucking everything around.
Everything that you look at
And everyone is just mesmerized.
You drink more, and then you smoke with pleasure,
As the music of success is playing in the background.
It is your favorite band with your favorite song
And that is all you want to hear at the moment.
Fuck all those side-noizes,
Meaningless sounds of destruction.
Your mind is drowning in the booze
And you just don’t give a fuck
Like a true winner, like a true champ.
You’ve made it. You are a successful man.
And you should be proud of it.

Poem: At the beach with my family

~ John Loraine ~ 13 Comments

The ocean looked calm, more or less.
Waves were hitting the shoreline,
But no more than usual.
It’s never too quiet or simple, anyway.
The sand under our feet felt rough and a little wet
From the last night’s rain
But it still felt great
To be at the beach with my family.
The kid played in the sand, and I played with him
And he smiled and laughed as we both did
At something that he enjoyed doing.
We ran on the sand, chasing seagulls,
Chasing dreams,
Chasing life.
My wife was smiling, playing with our son,
And he was happy and excited to be there.
He loves playing in the sand, building or ruining the sandcastles,
Running in the sand, falling on the sand, walking on the sand
Do anything on the sand.
We stay out there late until the sunset
As the sun was rolling down the hills, we packed
And left the ocean to be there, lonely in the dark.
It was a great day at the beach, indeed,
And sadly, there aren’t too many days like this one,
Otherwise, there wouldn’t be a poem about it.

Poem: Rainy days, rainy thoughts

~ John Loraine ~ 9 Comments

Sometimes it rains through the clear sky
Like the sky is cleansing itself and getting it all out.
Sometimes I sit and wonder about the sky through
The whiskey mind and the clouds of smoke.
There is something in that smoke that makes a man wonder.
There is something in the sky that does the same.
The whiskey is cold, and it tastes like freedom,
The only thing that one cares about always.
The only thing that one gets less of every day.
The only thing that is being taken away slowly.
You can’t take the words out of the song.
It’s been written this way. It is meant to be this way.
It wouldn’t be the same song otherwise.
There is music in the air, and there is smoke.
There is a brave heart, and there are bluebirds in the sky.
There is a strong mind and a weak soul
And there are so many books meant to be read
But most of them will be forgotten.
There is so much in life that it takes several lives
To live honestly and fully and experience everything.
Some men never lived, and some never died.
When it rains, the world stops, and everyone is waiting for it to stop.
When it rains, the soul wants to get out there and be free,
And wash itself out in that warm summer rain.
Some things will never be the same as people
Would never be the same.
There are songs that never will be played again.
Like the song of freedom.

Poem: Time Never Stops

~ John Loraine ~ 1 Comment

The watch is ticking on my wrist
I can see the handles move in circles
And I can hear the tiny gears
And springs in motion.
They move the time,
They change my life,
The watch remains the same.

The watch is ticking on my wrist
But when it stops, I feel relieved.
It feels like I’ve captured the moment
I own it. It is all mine.
The watch might stop as
Life might stop
But time never stops
And the watch is always the same,
The same twenty-four hours,
The same markers for twelve, three, six, and nine.

The watch is ticking on my wrist
I can hear it in the quiet room.
It will stop when my heart stops
Beating, living, exhausted from pumping
The blood.
One day it will be the end for me
The end to all of us,
But there will be somebody
To wind that watch of life
To make it tick again,
To make the movement go,
As time goes on,
As life goes on.
Time never stops
It always moves.

Poem: The Magic of the Moment

~ John Loraine ~ 16 Comments

I walked toward the sunset
I did not want to wait until it came to me.
It was up there shining in my face
While going down,
Setting behind the horizon
Like it usually does.
The ocean roamed with waves coming back and forth
It wasn’t calm, but it made my heart at peace.
I’m peaceful here. I’ve arrived
To the place, I can call home.
I belong here. I am happy here.
It is all mine, all that ocean,
And all that sand and sun up there in the sky,
Shining in my face, hiding behind the clouds,
Hiding behind the horizon
Shining in my face its last
To let me know the day is over,
And tomorrow will be another one.
And nothing matters anymore before or after.
I am here, and I’m alive.

Poem: On the beach

~ John Loraine ~ 14 Comments

Listening to the grand old jazz at the beach on
The lovely sunny afternoon is better than anything.
Watching the sun up in the sky go down
Behind the horizon is the magic of nature.
It will happen with or without jazz music
It will happen with or without anybody watching.
Ocean waves speak volumes,
And the sea birds run around trying to find something
They can eat in the sand.
The sand is pure white, the purest cleanest white powder all around
The comfort and the pleasure for both sea birds and my people walking around.
There is the sky, the birds, the ocean, the waves, the wind, the fish in the water,
And the women in bikinis. What else is there that you need?
The sun will rise, and the sun will dawn
And the day will change the night
Life has its direction, and it follows that.
Jazz music is a pleasure for my ears
Beer is a pleasure for my soul,
A cigarette is a pleasure for my mind,
And the beach is where I want to be forever.
The trumpet is whistling; the drums are drumming,
The ocean moves with all its power.
The sun shines brightly like there is no tomorrow.
There is no reason to be hopeless after all.
There is hope, and there is life, and there will be another day,
Life goes on; the jazz will live forever, and the ocean, and the beach,
And the sand, and the birds, and the sun,
It’s only us that have an expiration date,
Sooner or later, we’ll all be gone,
Leaving this magic for somebody else.

Poem: Love

~ John Loraine ~ 15 Comments

Love comes in and out suddenly
It helps you live and helps you suffer
It can punch you in the face.
Love means holding hands together
Love means to kiss
Love means to smile, to hug,
Love means watching each other grow old.
Love means the wrinkles on your face
And body changes, weather changes
Everything changes.
Love justifies it all.
Love saves, love scars.
Love is like the ocean,
It could be endless
And it can dry out.
Love is like a highway
It can last a while or end shortly.
It’s a trip.
It’s a trip that you take
As long you move, loves moves.
Love moves life.
It can screw with your head
It can screw with your life.
Love can screw your head, your soul
And your mind.
You cannot live without it
And sometimes it will make life more difficult with love.
Love means loving somebody unconditionally
Without receiving love back.
It’s the hardest thing.
It’s the hardest thing.
Love is like a flower in the sand.
It can grow through everything
It can survive, but it might need some water in it.
It needs passion, it needs the air,
And it needs the purpose.
What is the purpose of love?
It’s your own thing.
It is whatever makes you drive.
It is what makes you take the highway.
Jump through all the hoops, suffer, sacrifice,
In the name of love.
Love is lungs full of air,
Love is a forest full of trees,
Love is everything and nothing.
You can keep love, you can hide it,
You can avoid it, but it will always show up
In your heart, in your face, in your smile, in your hair,
In your teeth, in your bones.
It can bite you, and it can bite others.
Love has no limits.
It can go on and on, rooflessly and endlessly,
It can throw people off.
It can mess with your dailiness, busyness, problemness,
But it also can cure all of it.
It all depends.
Just like everything else in life,
It all depends.
Love is a free bird in the sky,
Love is blue sky and ocean, and all the palms
On the beach,
All the cars on the highway,
And all the trees up in the mountains.
Love is old age,
Love is young age,
Love is sunset and sunrise.
Love is a dark room with windows closed.
Love is an empty closet.
Love is running water in a shower.
Love is a bed in the bedroom.
Love is sex.
Love is moving.
Love helps us to leave,
Love is here to stay.
We all need a little bit of love
For each of us in our lives.
It’s easier this way,
It’s better this way.
It’s the best way out
And the best way in.

Poem: Staring in the distance

~ John Loraine ~ 15 Comments

The poem like the sun that shines through everything,
Shines through the darkness and blinds you.
A sunny day is just a sunny day unless you
Get a chance to enjoy it.
Who needs all the trees in the world
And who needs all the birds?
We have jobs, we have beer,
We have corporations and we have wars.
You pick your battles sometimes but
Most of the time they pick you
And fucking beat you to the ground.
The strongest man will survive,
This is the game and somebody
Is playing you all the time.
It is too dark to see and yet
There is just so much of it,
So much of everything
That with time it just doesn’t matter
It becomes your new life.
People change as they should
Not always for their best,
How can anybody be the best
When we all are running on power reserve?
The trees are blooming again
And it is this time of the year
When you just want all that shit
Go to hell, and disappear.
You just stare into the distance
Thinking about nothing,
With a cold beer in your hand,
Not a worry about anything.
Tomorrow will arrive
As it usually does.

Poem: Poetry

~ John Loraine ~ 12 Comments

I am here. I stay up
When the night changes the day and
The day changes the night.
I watched it all happen
In front of my eyes.
I don’t have to go anywhere
I just sit in this small room
With the closed shades wearing
My sunglasses waiting for
The answers.
I know tomorrow is another day
And I think it will be different
While I hope not much will change
Because I like it this way.
This is good. This is simple.
This is familiar.
This is me in a nutshell.
Those who write poems
Early in the day, at the
Break of the day,
Always see
When the day changes the night
As it all begins all over,
For those who read poems.
One more time, just like
It has been before.
There is darkness to the day
And it feels lighter at night.
My words lined up in my mind and
I need to take them somewhere
On the page,
As I write, as I try, as I struggle
As I think of the next line
And the next poem
And the next day.
The day is changing the night again
And I am drowning in this room
Like I did the day before.

Poem: People like islands

~ John Loraine ~ 10 Comments

It’s ok to be alone and not to ask questions.
Sometimes the most important
Things are left unspoken.
We all know what it is, but we don’t say it aloud.
People are like islands; they all have so much in common
But they are much different on the inside
And there is all this water between them
That it takes a boat to go from one place to the other.
Sometimes it takes a lifetime to arrive
Where you wanted.
And it takes forever to reach somebody’s mind or heart
So distant and so foreign and yet so familiar.

People are at their best when they are alone,
Then they put on the mask and walk outside
Hiding their souls and pretending not to be themselves anymore.
It is a hard game to play, and rules change all the time.
We don’t create the rules. Somebody else does. We just follow.
We don’t question. We keep it all inside unanswered and just
Like the bird locked up in the cage, beating up against the walls
Trying to get out, but it’s not possible unless
Somebody let it happen.
The sky is so close but so far away at the same time and
We all can see it, but we cannot touch it.

We can only come closer to it in our dreams.
Dream little people, dream, while the night sleeps
While the day’s done, until the next time,
Until the next day, when you will hopefully
See the daylight again. You will put your mask on and
Go out there into the world of mystery and questions,
And into the unspoken thoughts and dreams,
Trying to survive again, trying to reach the sky,
While drowning in the waters of everyday life,
More and more, deeper and deeper
Until there is nothing else to do
But to get to the bottom at peace
With peace of your mind.