képek, betűk

this world is not even worth a poem
every text is imperfect in its falseness
like an impassioned self-destruction
where the instrument is existence itself
even that is a lie
when I look at you and you look back
you lie with your blinking
you lie when you speak
you lie when you fall asleep
when you come
you lie, and if you know it
you lie all the more
since you have to lie about
knowing that you are lying
and once you have stopped
you sit alone
staring at the wall
and no one, nothing is left
only loneliness
and then
you lie self-pity into being
so that you may feel better
and be able to lie again
in exchange for ephemeral happiness.