My head is full of unfinished thoughts,
Still it is more of a strainer than a pot:
Thoughts fill it to the brim, but anyway
fall to the merciless flame of days.
Stained sheets of paper stack into skyscrapers,
The rumble of my brain drives sleep away —
C-R-R-Reate! w-R-R-Rite it down! c-R-R-Raft!
Die like a hero for not-yet-existing stuff.
I’d like to jump in puddles with a lunatic grin.
I’d like to see light patterns through thin eyelid skin.
I’d like to fall into the moisture of morning grass.
I’d like to write a new line, nevertheless.