I can’t speak your name anymore cause it has transformed into someone you’re not.

And I hope that your lack of self love has been fixed by receiving love from the world. 

But it doesn’t really work like that, does it? 

 

It has become so important for you to feel important.

You breath it now, live on it now.

 

Don’t you feel like a waste of space?

 

You see, 

before you lived in sandcastles built on empty foundations,

before they crowned you a king,

you had royalty in your spine. 

And you shouldn’t have to be painted in gold for people to see the glitter in your screwed up soul. 

 

You don’t sleep like you used to anymore.

And it’s all rock and roll until they kill you babe. 

Wear seven condoms, don’t be human, become your name, find famous friends. 

Yes baby, you’re doing all the wrong things right. 

 

For one last time, 

lets fuck each other good

and treat each other bad. 

 

If we’re Franc, I know thats really not your Style, if we cut the bullshit of you being a Sharming man, and get back to you saying ”I’d rather be broke with you baby than living their lives”, don't you see? Don’t you hear something that is louder than them screaming your name?

It goes ” fuck fame, fuck fame”.

 

 

----------

F.E.W 27/10-15

New York is cold and far away now

the people have lost their beauty

and closed their homes.

 

A street musician sing, but no one is listening.

” The look of innocence is priceless but right now you look so lifeless”

The song of the rich.

 

New faces, same stories, no good intentions to be found. 

There are sonsofbitches everywhere

and an elder couple are feeding the birds,

birds who’ll leave for elsewhere anytime now.

Even the birds are sonsofbiches.

 

It’s cold everywhere, the air, the people, my inside. 

And even with the slightest sunlight, I’m lightly depressed.

 

No dancing, fucking, gin or toxic seem to help.

I am exhausted.

Tired.

Partly dead.

Color fades.

Everything is pale.

I’m home but not safe.

 

”Run now, run, you won’t get anywhere until you stop somewhere and even then & then” I whisper into the night ,

to a darkness that won’t answer back. 

The waves are back,

”She’s lost control”,

laughter,

and shaky bathroom love-stories. 

 

Love me too late

like Nick Drake. 

Joy division,

no submission.

Babe, treat me like Miss Sedgwick, Bob. 

Ruin me, por favor. 

 

 -----------------

F.E Weeren.