It's the beating of my heart [Spoken Poetry]


This is a writing from my book Another Vagabond Lost To Love.

Amazon UK  //  Amazon US  //  Signed copies in my store


It’s the beating of my heart.
The way I lie awake, playing with shadows slowly climbing up my

wall. The gentle moonlight slipping through my window and the sound of a lonely car somewhere far away, where I long to be too, I think. It’s the way I thought my restless wandering was over, that I’d found whatever I thought I had found, or wanted, or needed, and I started to collect my belongings. Build a home. Safe behind the comfort of these four walls and a closed door.

Because as much as I tried or pretended or imagined myself as a part of all the people out there,
I was still the one locking the door every night.
Turning off the phone and blowing out the candles so no one knew I was home.

’cause I was never really well around the expectations of my personality

and I wanted to keep to myself.
and because I haven’t been very impressed lately.

By people, or places.

Or the way someone said he loved me and then slowly changed his mind.

I’m easily bored and it’s comfortable to let the safety of a place drag you in. In with its routines and circles, habits of being content. Of not wanting more. I might have fallen for its shelter a little while, because the winter was hard and cold and I was small and alone, but my heart never did. It had been screaming in silence every night, trying to get my attention. But I was too busy being sad, or bored, just unimpressed by it all. And some days I couldn’t tell the difference between the beating of a heart and the dying of one.

It all takes time and lessons and places, but I’m learning to listen to my restless heart, telling me to “go, go, go!”

because I was never meant to stay or settle.

I am running and singing and when it’s raining I’m the only one left on the open street, smiling with my eyes fixed on the sky because it’s cleansing me. I’m the one on the other side of the party, hearing laughter and the emptying of bottles while I peacefully make my way to the river, a lonely road, following the smell of the ocean. I’m the one waking up at 4am to witness the sunrise, where the sky touches the sea, and I hold my elbows, grasping tight to whatever I’ve made of myself. And then nights like these, sitting high on adrenaline in the dark by a tiny lake somewhere I don’t know where it is, for I was running and deliberately lost my way. The world far off and nothing but my breath and the very next step and it’s like hypnosis. The feeling of conquering my own aliveness with no task but to keep going, making every way the right away,

and that’s a metaphor for everything.

There’s this thing they say, about living according to your nature, your natural ability to get by. When you place yourself in an environment with tasks and challenges that the universe didn’t intend for you to do or take on, everything aspires to take you away from there. You need an incredible amount of self-control to become good at something you’re not meant to do. It’s possible, but your subconscious will constantly be asking you to leave. It will consume you with a constant feeling of doubt, of negotiating with yourself because you want to do this, you tell yourself, but still you need to remind yourself of WHY every second of every day, because it doesn’t come naturally, doesn’t come easy, and you will

always be working against the world, against your nature. No flow. No wind in the back. Uphill climb with stones on the road.

There are days when the loneliness eats me like cancer and I can’t find one single reason to keep running, keep searching, hustling, creating. But deep inside this mind of mine, I know. I always know. And there is no turning back. There is no alternative. This is the place I’ve been given and been made for, and someone’s got to fill it. So you need to ask yourself: will you keep resisting the place you’ve been given, ignore the signs and find excuses for everything, just to get by? Or will you surrender to fate, trust your story and take your place so proud and sure that no one will ever doubt that that place was made for you and you only, like it in fact was?

Answers are simple when you ask the right questions and I was not born to slow down. It’s me alone in front of whatever God or spirit there is and the nights I run far off track, in doubt or in fear, I must believe that it’s in the dark we learn how to feel. Because sometimes it’s not about seeing where the path will lead, but to feel it, and that’s where I will go. I can choose to ignore or avert, but there will be hurdles on my way, redirecting me back to my place, and I need to take responsibility for it.

So I keep going. Keep doing. Keep being. This. I let it consume me, the same old feeling of wheeling alone on this road

that turned into my life. My story.
The endless pursue of peacefulness and belonging.

A quest towards happiness with nothing but life itself,
and I am right back off track, where all things of meaning happen.

As long as I am moving, I’m right on the path I made.



- Sister by The Glass Child >>>

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drunk on someone else’s love,
or couch,
and I’ve never felt more at home.

I fled myself,
from the life I’ve built
because I’ve been inhabiting routines I don’t want to stand for.

Inhabiting skin I’d rather shed
but still took on
like a soldier serving his country,
for that’s what they told me to do.
But I was not
or wise,
but young and foolish,
for what is this thing? Trading passions for a tiny bit of acceptance,

and I am not a Sunday morning inside four walls
with clean blood
and organised drawers.
I am the hurricane setting fire to the forests
at night when no one else is alive,
or awake,
however you choose to see it,
and I live in my own flames.
Sometimes burning too bright and too wild
to make things last 
or handle
myself or anyone else
and so I run.
Run run run,
far and wide
until my bones ache and lungs split
and it feels good.
Hear that, people? It feels good,
because I am the slave and ruler of my own body
and I wish to do with it exactly as I please,
and living in this skin is hard and painful, most of the times,

because I never volunteered to take this on.

The daily sacrifice of heart over mind,
the forever on going task of explaining this and that,
and why I don’t want to look like this and
be like that
but still here I am and if this is the body I’ve been given I’m sure as hell gonna make it work.
If this is the place I’ve been given, I’m sure as hell gonna make this work.

So I fled the me that was never really me and I’m on my way. To newer lands and uncleaned streets
for I’ve had enough of childish safety in comfort.
Enough of all telling me to look and do, like this and that,

and I never meant to please anyone but myself
and you can call me selfish,
throw words like knives in the dark but I will not listen,
for not listening to sharp words brought me to where I am today
and I believe in the path I’ve been given. If my only task in this life is to walk it,
I surely will walk it
prouder than anyone else.

If this is the path I’ve been given, I will walk it
prouder than anyone else,
for no one else can.

// from my book You’re Doing Just Fine ☾

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