Ballade en bord de Marne,

Je sens le soleil sur ma peau mais le vent dans mon dos me rappelle que c’est l’hiver.

Ça fait un an déjà que dure cet état de latence,

Ça devient dur d’écrire, de dire, d’en rire,

Les jours s’allongent mais perdent de leur saveur,

Tout le monde dans le même bateau qui prend l’eau,

Mais chacun sa façon de se noyer,

Optimistes contre pessimistes se débattent dans l’océan d’incertitudes,

Et pendant ce temps j’erre au bord de la Marne,

À l’aube d’un jour nouveau.

Petite ballade en compagnie de mon sprocket de Lomography.

Par la fenêtre…

Léthargique, prostrée, absente au monde

Elle le regarde vivre, changer, passer

Dans le silence de sa chambre,

Dans le silence de ses sens,

Elle n’a pas choisi de fuir,

Elle n’a juste pas su éclore,

Une coquille vide, noircie par le temps,

Mais dont l’essence brille à l’intérieur,

Tout au fond et bien à l’abri

De la lumière perverse du monde.

End of the year 2020

Let’s not talk a bout the C word

Let’s not talk about the V word

Let’s not talk about how F*** up our lives turns out in 2020

All the time we were given to ourselves 

All the time we choose to do nothing with it

All the time we were climbing walls in our head while laying still in our beds

And all the news, news, news that we couldn’t escape

 And all the move, move, move that we couldn’t  achieve 

And all the pain, pain, pain some of us got through 

This year was a reminder that some things are way bigger than ourselves and that we are capable of working together when we have to, so let’s keep working to have a better next year. 

I guess… I love you.

I guess I’m too late again,

Too late to tell you how safe you made me feel all those years ago, when you were the only one I could hold on to.

 I never told you that I made it thanks to you and my family only, but family are stuck to you when you choose to be stuck with me. 

I never said thank you for holding my hand, listening to me and caring, caring about me when even I gave up on myself. 

I guess it’s too late to tell you that I think I’m in love with you, now that you have your life and probably someone you love and care for instead of me.

I have no right to tell you that now, I guess it would be selfish….

My favorite drug is coffee

I don’t know about you but the first thought I have in the morning is : I need coffee !

The idea of this warm, black liquid filling up my body and making me aware of the word in front of me. 

Coffee is a drug in our society, the drug of energy, of awareness. The one you drink in the morning to wake up, at 10 because you’re bored and it’s a good reason to have a break, at noon because after your lunch it’s nice and warm and it will help you fight the need for a nap, another one at 3 or 4 pm because the day is finally catching up to you and all the sudden you’re tired, you need coffee. You stop there because you need to sleep at night but the ritual will be back in the morning. 

Obviously you shouldn’t need coffee on your day off, but you can’t help yourself, you need it all the time, everyday, it’s a drug. I know it, you know it but it’s not like those drugs that you’re ashamed to talk about, it’s not hard drugs, it’s a drug that you’re proud of, you can proclame how much you love it to other people, you can share your addiction with people all over the world and no one will ever blame you or chastise you for it. 

Coffee is our beloved poison… exciting our brains, warming up our bodies, speeding up our hearts and we love every second of it. 

Some days

Some days you wake up and as soon as you open your eyes
You feel overwhelmed, lost, anxious
No matter what you do the heavy feeling keep growing
No matter what you do the tears keep falling 

You don’t wanna talk, 
You don’t wanna move, 
You don’t wanna think
You want to go back to sleep and wake up another day

You want everyone to leave you alone
You want the world to stay outside
You want everything to be silent
You just want to disappear 

And your friends, your family the one who cares about you
You avoid them, you refuse to show them
What you look like, when you’re not okay
Because you’re ashamed

But you have to remember : It gets better, eventually …


Nuit d’orage

Au dehors l’orage gronde, 

Les gouttes de pluie s’écrasent sur la fenêtre,

L’eau s’infiltre sous la porte,

À l’intérieur du chaos pour couvrir le bruit,

La musique, la radio, des mots, 

Le refus absolu du silence, 

La peur de disparaître dans l’ombre,

Alors que dans la nuit noire,

La foudre illumine les larmes de la pluie.

The romantic song…

She was in so deep
Over her head
Over herself
Entirely overwhelmed

Emotion flooding through her
Mind dissolving into thin air
Soul descending into darkness
Skin vibrating with energy

What was she even doing there
In this room with him
With his eyes burning her
With his hands hurting her

Just the touch has been painful
What kind of emotion is this
Making you feel so full yet so empty
So happy but deeply sad

How painful can it be to be in love with you…

Jeanne La muse (fiction)

They ask me not to move, five minutes, then ten, it’s been two hours already. Posing is the most boring (in)activity I can think of, especially when you remember that you won’t get paid for it. If it wasn’t for Charles, I wouldn’t be there, posing next to him where I would belong if the world was working right.

Maybe not… after thinking about it. Two days ago we even broke up … again. That happened at list twice a month, even more sometimes. It’s not even his fault half of the time, but the way they look at me, his so called friends, or their society. Always looking down on me, like I’m nothing, less than human. Savage is what I am to them, and even when he try to defend me, it’s painful. Worst even, because it feels like he parade around with me like I am his exotic catch. 

Only in the bed, when he look at me, really look at me that I see the love, that I feel loved. Of all the men falling asleep in my bed, he is the only one who ever stayed. That’s why today, as bored as I am, I’m not moving from his side. 

I’ll never understand why there isn’t more informations about poet’s muses, because to inspire them they had to be very inspiring

Propulsé par

Retour en haut ↑