Back to the starting point,
With bare wrists,
Where the razor blade is only the tool,
To the complete happiness.
Where the freedom live,
And the sorrow just has to watch.
First when the darkness consumes the playground,
The children has to go from their turn on the rollercoaster,
Nobody is perfect,
And perfect is nothing.
Pedagogies in worn out shoes,
See no reason for name-game.
Because who can’t remember that which bites,
That which destroys when the eyes closes,
That which is spelled alike in every heart.
The sand lays back to a lot,
But there is a new way to spell happiness,
It prickles in the dictionary,
Like itch in the fingers.
When the 20 Lucky Strike is smoked,
The lungs need its daily dose,
Which takes care of,
Degreasing the hearing of older people.
Now the word spells itself in the playgrounds wood,
Childish letters crawl up from the deep,
Snaking themselves from edge to edge:
H.A.T.E. |
