Cubicle of the room.

I look out of the window;

I see umbrellas

And endless rain frozen in the air.

There are no doors in my cubicle.

Drops don’t let the air in.

Less and less oxygen left.

The umbrellas keep moving.

I am watching them move

As my face becomes pale.

Beating against the glass and walls,

But the fate has been determined.

I cover myself with white paint

To match the walls

And dissolve in the cubicle.

Lack of oxygen shows;

I am blue.

I am lonely.

Every umbrella is in a separate cubicle,

Each is slowly suffocating.

I choose to end it quicker.

I dissolve in white paint.


Smudge of paint

It’s become too late.

Too late for you;

Too late for me.

But my brain keeps painting

Possible pictures

With watercolors of impulses.

Nothing hurts more

Than taking yourself out

Of the naive sentimentalily

That had been in charge until now.

Time doesn’t exist.

Hearbeats are fictional.

Breathing is pretentious.

Life is nothing but

A smudge of paint.