Fixing a head is so much harder than you think.
To be perfect makes no sense if no sense comes in perfection. People say it’s impossible. I think they’re right, these people.
I couldn’t care less.
This is a small collection of a lot of old poems from my teens, written approximately from the year 2000 to 2012. Most of them have been conceived in a fit of rage, anger or all the built-up hatred residing within me. But this was my cure, for the time being, along with all my other poetic works, novels, short-stories and fantasies. But, as you may find, the latter poems depict the new me, the reborn me, the phoenix rising from the ashes of depression to finally meet the world with an openminded perspective of life as well as positive energies instead of negative. And even though hate and rage can be a force just as great as love, then love does not have as many negative side-effects as hate, like paranoia, fear and anxiety.
Maybe you already know this.
Maybe you don’t care, just like I do. Maybe you’re genuinely interested.
Sorry, my bad. I’m not a very good sales person. I generally tend to write the truth, at least the truth in my heart, not a scam or a hoax for people to believe me to be sweet or anything.
In some circumstances, I’d say that my novels are more genuine traits of me. True, but this is more like the spilling of blood than describing its taste, consistency or color. If you get my point.
I might bore you, I guess I bore many people from time to time, but I still hope you’ll like my writing. Not that I demand it of you, but I’d like you to just reflect, if you can, on what’s been said here once you close the book. Not big thoughts, not something important or a revelation of the bigger kind. Just, well, a bit of contemplating.
I’m not seeking pity, I’m fine as I am at the moment, and I guess I will be for a long time into the future. My only problem remains that this is the only way I can show who I really am. Or at least say it… Does that make sense? All my literary work is part of me, representing me. It might, to some, appear degrading, becoming words on pages, black ink on white sheets, but none the less, this is the purest form of me. Being simple doesn’t mean being stupid, less wise or less intelligent than previously perceived. You simply find your media and you become one with it. Those who exploit the media do not understand their function or the potential it has. Artistry has become merchandise you can buy at any store, in the market or online.
It doesn’t make a difference.
The appendix consists of a small and not entirely complete collection of children’s rhymes, made by myself and told in the fashion of one of my characters from my novels.
P.s.: The content will be updated as more poems are added in the future.