Post-Mortem

How difficult it is, to explain oneself
and how much it hurts...
Imagination is a gift, so are words
putting them one after the other
creating entirely different worlds
Worlds where I am the protagonist
where only my feelings matter
Trying to draw borders to pain
trying to see hope, even if there is none
trying to put it all into a poem
and sealing it close for an eternity
Mocking life, feeling strong,
Cursing life, feeling weak
Like an ancient God with great power
the power of verse, that's what it is
And you are invited to witness
see the reflections of your own dreams
But why and why on earth
this longing for autopsy, this twisted lust for explanations?