As the waves crash

against the roaring surf

I set foot on a foreign coast,

cold, fresh water flowing

around my bare feet, sinking

into the wet sand with every step.

I’m breathing in turquoise air

from verdant fields that flourish

in the glare of a newborn sun

casting away the storm clouds

that followed, raged upon my ship

until love denied them entrance

to these untouched lands, turning

their rain and thunder into soft lessons

about the reason why the place

we once called home went up in flames

and was flooded with sweet, cold silence.



Tōrō nagashi

I think silence is the word I seek

for when I stare upon

empty space and phantom symphonies

hollow spheres in shallow waters

but lights flash and fade

disturbing the calm darkness

ever once in a while and sometimes

they stay lit in a soft glim

like paper lanterns, varying in

brightness, carrying a secret

each of their own and I think

I have to get my feet wet

to join their endless floating,

humming a song echoing in this

silent void to watch a few

gravitate in my direction,

softly knocking into me

and up close,

I can read the names written

on the thin parchment

but the brightest, prettiest one

will always remain floating

in deeper waters

until someone dares to drown

before they can capture it’s light.


paper lanterns


Heart over heels

So what do you think?

he whispered, asking her

carefully exploring the patterns

on her hand, the texture of

warm skin, soft to the touch

and full of old pictures.

I don’t know

the wind replied,

raging gently in love and sparking

a fire, feeding it steadily while

leaving me searching the path

which I should take, chaining

me to the ground while pulling me

across the sea of Atlas and 

sometimes I find myself

letting it carry my mind away

to a distant, magic place

quickly, just like that

into your arms.





To poets, artists and other lost spirits

They say the artists get there before the poets do.
And the poets get there before the storytellers and the scientists, eventually. Myths and tales of heroes and martyrs, painted and envisioned in beautiful artworks made of paint, paper and words. Stories that are as relevant today as they have been thousands of years ago, only that we got blind to them on one eye or both. Stories of sacrifice, adventurers and monsters to defeat. Stories of facing ourselves, the devil or god himself and retrieving priceless treasures or getting destroyed in the process to be reborn.

Sometimes paintings can speak of emotions and ideas while poets take another 100 years to find a way to put them in words. But eventually, they catch up and so do the storytellers and writers after them. This is the endless process of exploring and unfolding the world, discovering things we barely even dreamed of before and embedding them into our understanding of the world and deep into our souls, making them a part of our culture and identity to give forth to our children and grandchildren. We take what we dream, feel and experience when we dive into the Unknown and try to shape it into something we can grasp and handle like a potter does with clay. Nobody knows where some of these treasures come from but there is undoubtedly something transcendent involved, deep in our souls or something out there that we don’t quite understand.

Nonetheless, every picture we paint, every poem we write and every story we tell is part of our world’s learning process and becomes part of our culture and it’s value should never be underestimated.
If you feel like painting, paint.
If you feel like writing, write.
Don’t keep the treasures to yourself, create something and involve some courage. If you can, go where it’s scary. You might surprise yourself and discover something unmeasuredly valuable in the process. Write about what you feel and what you love, turn it into an artwork. One if it’s kind.
There is nothing to be gained from playing it safe. Go all in, give it all you got and see what happens.

Waiting For A Train by Thornton Utz

I confess

It is easy to write.

To write what we want to write about
and even what we have to write about.
But if we try to write about what we
really feel, trying to echo what we see
in the mirror when we close our eyes
and what we hear when we pause the
music and let our heart into our head …

It’s like confessing, isn’t it?
Like confessing to someone how much
we hurt them, like taking our own hand
and admitting to how much we have
abandoned ourselves when we needed
us the most. It’s hard. It’s so hard but
it lifts a weight off our shoulders.

So I confess.

I confess that I’m scared when I look
confident and brave. I am no stronger
than the people who hold onto me.

I confess that I am lonely when I choose
to leave, to stay away from people
to spent time with myself and to grow.
I hate it almost as much as I enjoy it
and I still choose the book over people
when it comes down to it.

I confess that I am sensitive and too
ashamed to show it and I don’t know
how I managed to keep this hidden
for so many years, trying to be tough
when I felt like crying for hours
until I get the chance to hide.

I confess that I can’t forgive my dad
for the things he said and done and
even though he has a good heart,
and I should respect him, I can’t
let go of too many things and I’m
tired of trying.

I confess that I still love her, so much
that I cry of happiness sometimes
when I picture her smile or holding
her hand while seeing airplanes.
I suck at letting go and I miss her
too much to even try, so – fuck it –
I hold on to the plushy she gave me,
I can’t sleep without it, anyways.

I confess that I am nervous to press
the ‘Publish’ button and I’m still
going to do it to make you see,
that it’s alright to confess, to look
weak and to give yourself to people
the exact way you are.

They might get uncomfortable
or walk away from you but
it feels so much better to just
let these things go because
I didn’t write what I wanted you
to see, tonight.

Tonight I wrote you a piece of myself.


Belated hugs

it’s okay.
It’s okay to be tired and
to look like shit.
It’s okay to feel like it, too.
It’s okay to leave early and
it’s okay not to show up.
It’s okay to be upset and
to cry by yourself.
It’s okay to cry in front
of others, too.
It’s okay to be weak
and to struggle.
It’s okay to be jealous and
clingy and it’s okay
to be distant and silent.
It’s okay to complain and
it’s okay to be afraid.
It’s okay to love and to
fall again, even when
you’ve been proven
that it hurts.
It’s okay to feel, to live,
to fight and to give up.
It’s okay to never let go.
It’s okay to be.
It’s okay.



Once I saw a hummingbird.

I looked up and before I even knew it

he sat on my shoulder, leaving me a sense of

feelings, vague sounds from silent thoughts

and faceless pictures. Quickly I hushed him

away like a vexing bug so he flew forth and

came back as a wind, whispering tales and

melodies, silly ideas blowing my notes away.

Swiftly I caught them and went home, closing

doors and windows to write in silence, peace

so he went away and came back as a storm,

knocking against my safe home from all sides

leaving tears on my windows and shattered

glass in my garden. The hummingbird sat

on the ledge and in face of the raging weathers

I let him in, to sit on my shoulder and suddenly

the storm calmed down, clearing the skies

so I could feel sun at day and see stars at night

and now, that he found a heart to stay with,

he is giving my thoughts a voice to hear

and faces to the pictures on my mind.



You’re the judge

Am I a liar or a fool

pretending that I’m fine

in the eye of the storm,

saying I can live without you

whilst a picture of us saves me

from drowning in this void

every single night I find myself


Am I free or imprisoned

for I can’t escape you

and every time I let you go

I find you again in my arms

those beautiful eyes staring

right into my heart as you

sentence me to love you

every second I’m conscious

over and over





Heartstring Sounds – January

This strange feeling when something sticks with you for no apparent reason whatsoever. It enters your mind through your ears, eyes or any other sense – a smell, taste, sound… Usually it’s songs, though. We call them “Ohrwurm” where I come from and once it’s in your head, good luck getting it out again. Sometimes it’s just catchy or the lyrics are memorable, maybe the beat sticks out.
But sometimes I just don’t know what it is. Or why it even stuck to my mind like a burr while I wade through my daily business.
Even though I’m not certain, I can’t help but think that we attract these things somehow and most of the time we don’t even know we like it until we hear it.
I was sitting in the car, minding my business when it played on the radio, sneaking up on me and before I realized what was going on, I got goosebumps and a flood of emotions swept me away, just like that.
I didn’t even like her music so far, although I thought a few songs were kind of cool in the past. But for some reason this matched up with me in a weird way I still can’t seem to understand, despite of how obvious it feels.
Anyways, it ended up in my playlist and it will probably stay there for a while.
Enjoy “everything i wanted” by Billie Eilish.


A simple walk, they say, could or could not – it may

just open your eyes to a closed mind, running

in perfect circles until, in a moment of unawareness

a thought escapes, making the soul follow its trace

so focused on the little footsteps that it misses

how you found a way out of your own forest

and suddenly you can pick its rooted trees

from the very ground like flowers in a field,

breathe new life into dreams we learned to kill

a long time ago and gently move the sun,

emerging it from the clouds to shine again

where no ray of light ever dared to go.





I used to say, that
time heals all wounds
but how can it heal me
from the love that I carry?

How is a light-bulb supposed
to light up a room that is full
of sunlight and how will
a glass of water satisfy the
drought of an entire ocean?

How can I go and run away
when my heart found a place
to settle and how would a
gentle wind put out the fire
your eyes ignited in mine?

I don’t know and neither
does the moon, so he will
kindly keep me company,
casting shadows of you and me
in the soft light of his presence.

I will stay awake until your
sunlight floods the silence
of this everlasting night.

Jiji moon