-it's not a gift, it's a curse

   
I have this gift for knowing things I shouldn't    
about people, about life, about the way the sky    
sometimes smirks in memorium of opportunities    
that lost validity with every whimsical breeze in an    
effort to answer questions I kept asking myself    
until they fit into the puzzle the way I imagined...    
      
like manufactured lies I told without guilt in order    
to believe in what I had never seen before and in    
fairy tales written so children could dream that even    
the impossible was no obstacle, as long as you knew    
the secret handshake and how playing hide and seek    
was easier when counting to ten with only one eye closed...    
   
thinking I have all the answers has usually turned into me    
fighting for something to regret, the same regret a spider    
has when it wraps it's victim too tight, because the wiggle    
is where most of the satisfaction lives, the rest is just lifeless juice...    
   
in the end, it is I who bled through the rustle of    
dead leaves, through scorched earth left behind with    
memories of forgotten deeds where shame has always hidden    
like it were a smooth summer night, incomplete until    
reciting sounds of rogue lovers who never understood    
why it hurt so much when they turned the radio on    
only to hear the end of a favorite song, which left them    
wanting more, because in that moment somewhere inside    
those empty places we all harbor they realized the naked    
truth they were searching for had been stolen by the blind    
greed found in their own hearts...