I used to linger on this forum a long time ago, but somehow forgot to come back one day. I found the link in my bookmarks and, well, here I am, back again. I don't think anybody knows me, I never was very active here, what I now hope to change.
I'm not an English native speaker, my native language is actually Russian, but I live in Germany since 2001. However, I can identify with English much more than with German. I don't write German lyrics, but prose. In English, I write songs, poems and "daily drama wrapped in verses and maybe rhymes".
I see myself as an artist, even if I don't do much art lately - I seem to be unable to combine time and inspiration these days. But I write, and I write a lot - about myself, about my life, about other people in my life, about things I see.
I want to share some of my writings here.
Let's start with something old...
Paint With Your Hands.
Find me in the whisper of the snow covered trees
And softly rustling last years leaves
Under your feet
I’ll linger there
Until morning dawns
In the far away sky, with tints of grey and light ocker mixed with burnt sienna
The world shall be my canvas
I will paint with your hands
[10th January, 2009]
...continue with something dark...
The Truth Of The Artist
My life is a lie. A picture in a frame with a spirit behind the canvas
That wants to get out, desperately ripping at the weave.
I still don’t know for whom are my lies. Myself, I guess.
I can’t stop painting pictures for my mind, so calming
Now somebody put a bottle of thinner into my hand.
Pour it upon the painting, he said, for the colours to flush away.
Reveal yourself, show the truth, stop hiding it behind
This poorly painted canvas.
My hands are frozen and I can’t move but watch
The thinner slowly dripping to the ground.
Can somebody get me out of here?
I am afraid of the picture underneath the paint
So I wait here
For someone who is not, but the whole world is.
Who painted this? God doesn’t exist after all.
I searched for evidence for far too long and the only thing I found
Was dust on the icon. Somebody pass me a knife,
I have to kill the canvas.
[27th March 2009]
...and finish with something I had to realize one day.
Storms On The Black Sea
Seagulls are dancing behind the window
Their screams remind me of sand and salt in the air
And storm on the Black Sea – I’ve actually been there
Once. In my dreams I never left, but truth is – I never came back.
When I think of the time passed I realize
I’ve never had friends longer than half of a year
I’ve only had lovers and some people whom I
Haven’t managed to get into bed yet, I fear.
[11th May, 2010]
It was always me. I.
Mine, for me, to me, because
I was right about the prison I was living in
And that I build it myself and that I
Would always stay on my own,
I was not right about the people wanting
To hurt me, maybe sometimes they did but
I hurt myself the most. Every day, every night,
I made a mess and let them do the cleaning,
I made a mess of myself.
It was always me. I.
You are an egotist, they told me and
They were probably
I never learned to let another one
Into my lands, behind my walls, inside
I learned to wait and to be patient sometimes
And to stay alone even in a crowd
Or surrounded by them who
Wanted to be friends.
It was always me. I. I
It seems now, the whole world gave up
Trying to get through my cold
Walls made of stone and blood and I
Am left behind, all alone as it always
Was. Didn’t I want it that way? Didn’t I
Bring it about? I did, I guess.
Because it was always me. I. I
I have been everything to them, a witch
A beast, a goddess and a bitch.
I changed my faces as other change their
Clothes. I was the child, the mother and
But it was always me. I. Only I
[27th May, 2010]
After that one, I haven't wrote anything for almost a year. Maybe it's because nothing really happened in my life that stirred my soul enough. Two months ago, it changed completely. But enough blathering for now...