I have made some things to last,
never brag about the past.
I have showed my love and work,
admitted my mistakes and quirk.

I have money but nobody knows,
paid the price, suffered some blows.
I don't complain, I'm just a man,
I'll do my part, whatever I can.

I learned to step aside,
learned and lost my pride.
I am an independent geezer
but I'll still forever do anything to please her.

I get freaked out by the distance between clouds and me. I am no longer trying to leave the crowds and be the one on stage. I don't want to wage because I don't know my range of change. It's not only the hate to seal your fate. It's the unconditional adoration.

The arms to carry you are the ones that bury you.

When the climate becomes dry and cold,
when my hands and mind are slipping,
I do whatever's left to keep on gripping,
to stay on the line, even if it is on hold.

There's still chip shops, souls
and hip hops and soles to burn
on pavement or grass.
There will always be ball games,
small names and big days.
I see windows, I see doors,
I see mine and I see yours.

We're not doomed, well yet,
we're alive and as I've said,
there are sundays, there is sun,
still so much that can be done,
which feels nice when it is,
with my legs up and my head at ease.
Then I see, life can still be a softly soothing breeze.

I raise my glass and brows to certain teas,
we are blessed to have dogs barking, sweets
and care. I raise it all to some certainties,
laying down and tucked in in these blessed sheets.

I tremble, I shiver,
your light made me wither,
as I crawled away in awe.
The vastness of your being,
brought me a sense, a second seeing.
The tense and terror crept up and
I fell down, breaking both my eyes
and legs, the rest, eaten by a gull
or a mouse.

I wish I never chose to work
at that wretched lighthouse.

*** kan ik achterhalen
wat ik steeds vermijd,
*** kan ik mijn schaduw zien
als die steeds verwijdt?

Reclameborden sieren
de kamers in mijn brein.
Successen moet je vieren
ook al vind je dat
maar niets.

Water zakt, bloemen bloeien
water geven, bloemen snoeien,
leven leven, laten leven, gewoon,
tot de dood zich zelf komt moeien.

When I give you the finger,
you lend me a hand, right?
When my eyes start to linger,
you can't start a fight.

Only I can, because I am
an entitled ****, a nice guy
a white ly-
ing, shirtless dancing,
dominant beta male.

My fragile ego's fresh
but my mouth smells stale.
I am so deeply priviliged,
I can not not expect success.
And I still dare to beg for someone
to help me get out of this mess.
When alone, I see I'm out of luck
because I am an entitled ****.

I used to think the top
was most amazing,
the cream of the crop
was the most dazing
momentary bliss.

You showed me wrong
with just your being,
made me see the beauty I wasn't seeing,
simple, still, something you wouldn't want to miss.
You cried, I swayed, you gazed, I pried
and discovered the forehead kiss.

It was touching even if followed
by soaking me in ****.

Well, we all do. We swim around
in golden layered mud and when
our heads go under,
with rapid speeds, we attempt to plunder,
pluck our brains.
What brought me here?
Engulfed, no tears
are seen and no one knows
where those eyes have been.

Soms is zij voor mij de lichttoren,
niet omdat ze op mijn pad schijnt,
gewoon te weten dat er ergens licht is.

Vooruitgang is verlies,
verwenning doet ons missen
*** het was om maar te gissen
't is iets vies dat we de podcast
en een goed gesprek vergissen
in vernieuwing kan je oude waarde
wissen.

Zonder dat we het wisten is gisteren geklist,
bedisselen is zinloos en wisselen geen optie.
Sinds sommige vernieuwing is iets authentiek vermist.

In mijn hoofd heb ik een vraag verdiend.
't Is iets dat nauwelijks de pijn verzacht,
en daar trouwens niet voor dient,
maar: 'Wat had je dan verwacht?'.

Big steps, small,
running wall to wall,
walking, still, standing tall,
still on, still strong, we don't have to speed up
we don't have to stall.
Big steps, big step, big steps, small.
Big step, small step, baby, crawl,
you don't have to run yet,
just give it your all.
Big step, big step, stepping, fall,
there's no need to cry,
there's no need to brawl.
We can try again, yes, we try
and give our all.

Once mildly abused, now easily amused,
I read these works of past
forgotten, mass produced and rotten,
at long last
I can write it all away.

Stay down, stay or go
out and play.
I doesn't matter
any more in mind.
Just leave it all
carelessly
behind.

De rest is niet belangrijk,
emotie, zo omvangrijk
dat ze naast de kwestie vliegt.
Het ene in slaap gewiegd,
het ander overstijgt
door afkerigheid aaneen gerijgd.

Verwachten doen ons onszelf
verliezen, als we de drang
in onze plaats laten kiezen.

De rest vertelt ons wat we denken,
de context beïnvloedt wat we schenken.
De beleving, de bevlieging, de rust, het sussen,
ze mogen om de beurt mijn kloten kussen.

This ain't it, I said, as I watched
my childhood hero, whom I'd adored
clearly before, make bored
faces at the performance he'd botched.

There's a general case against
the meeting of said heroes.
I believe there is a condensed
advantage in discovering the zeroes.

It humbles, fumbles with your brain,
perception grows, the self then knows
there's no such thing as a perfect being,
which on its own is very freeing.

Always remember good and bad are stored
at different ratios in everyone, hated or adored.

De zon gaat even onder.
Wat dagelijks was, verschuift
naar week na week,
naar voor altijd zonder.

Terwijl wij stilstaan, draait
alles rond ons verder rond.
Stilte pakt kelen, snoert de mond,
kleurt de nacht die hoofden graait.

We hoeven geen wanneer,
we kiezen te vertrouwen:
de zon komt ooit wel weer.

Dan bedanken we in gedeelde dingen
wat we missen, wat verliezen is.

Superficial understanding
can be very demanding
for the 'I'm still standing'
part inside me.
For I have yet to discover
how I went from I won't bother
to I have to smother
to yet again a ****** lover
of the art I suppose
to produce in prose.

My caring for sharing what's inside
has chosen now to hide
for at least a little while. You see,
my care used to but stopped being
free.

And I'm not sure about who I want to be.

I do not understand my own sensations,
get hell-bent placing my frustrations
as I lay here, reminiscing,
drifting about, just a little bit,
as my thoughts leap
and I pretend to fight falling asleep.

I could spend hours trying
to decipher why I'm lying
to myself but as it seems
I'd rather keep myself engulfed in dreams,
haphazardly escaping the
reality.

Every year some artist makes changes.
Every time they do, we do.
In notes and lines and flags and mines,
game, with song, intertwines.

All times are strange, depending on your
perceptive needs and the range
of what we can bear before it bleeds.

The boldness of genes,
the whatever that means,
the finches, the flinches, flight or fight.
We'll never know who was truly right
about the meaning of it all.

The best part is we can choose,
the worst is that we must
or decay and rust
force us to lose.

Of a man I am acquainted, so bland
even the colours of his clothing fainted.
He has a knack of drinking till he passes,
dropping in and dropping glasses.

He chooses not how loud he speaks,
he chooses not how soon he peaks.
He flails about, his arms and legs,
not consciously aware of the help he needs he begs.

I throw my attire, emit many roars,
check my surrounding for wild and mean boars.
So sure, I jump and swim to him,
grab his collar, pull up his chin.

He grabs me back and pulls me down,
still flailing, causing so us both to drown.

*** pas ik dit toe?

Door te observeren,
acties te selecteren
te experimenteren
met factoren
tot de resultaten
enigszins een bron
van tevredenheid aanboren.

Dichter bij gelukkig zijn,
lijkt mij niet te bestaan.

I have dreams and so it seems
that I am done for.
I am lost for words and so it hurts
to say that I'll be gone for
quite some time.

I wish it all went slower fast,
I wish I could choose however long
anything could last.
My vision, though horribly wrong,
will always be crooked
regardless of the song,
regardless of in or out my bubble.

Therefore I will forever be
at least a bit
in trouble.

Suddenly it's four at night,
the bursts of lethality
slowly lower their productive kite.
You are left with less obsession,
less manic tendencies
for at least the month to come.
It's just amazing how the
sword of bread can crumb
and not be rebuild to be
its past delight.

It's four o' clock at night
and everything feels right.

I question my behaving,
raise my brow
at my own caving
to the flaws I need to outgrow.

In my genes I carry sickness,
in my skull there is a thickness,
blocking the lowering of a rotten tendency,
my *** and skin dependency.

I have lots to learn,
lots to concern
on my path to being better.

I'll keep doing what I can.

That being said, this time we mourn
for the loss of life,
a loss, unnecessary,
making many weary.

I, inclined to keep it shut, found that
unjust, in ways like the killing that occurred.
The worries of the world, as (well as) its economy,
came crashing down on me,
when I read online about wars, riots, disease and
infectious poverty.

I close my eyes, imagine hunger,
imagine pain, imagine gain,
imagine loss or it impending,
as my nerve endings are sending
signals to above, to rain down on and sifle
through my spine.

The frisson is not the kind that makes my senses cheer,
I know, as I ask myself:
Where do we go from here?

De enige zonder medaille,
de zeldzaamste, de rare,
vrij van zelfgerichte représaille,
niet bedoeld op 't openbare.

De laatste van staal,
die nooit een marathon liep,
's weekends langer sliep,
bukt voor bloemenpraal.

Verheerlijking is zeldzaam goed.

We paraderen in dezelfde stoet,
bestaan uit dezelfde klitters,
weten ook niet *** dan wel
en doen het
slechts met minder glitters.

What are dreams
when viewed as gateways
for those who hate days
and wish to escape to what seems
instead of their reality?

Tools of destruction, distinctive
from seductive safe havens
yet in short term not at all distinct.

What are dreams when seen
as just that, without having to lean
on pillows, nights and slumber?
Every trip is just a number.

Bring me home, bring me there
where I do not have autonomy,
where all I do is lie and nurture
and repair, somewhere I don't have to care
for others, me and melancholy.

Take me where it's right to say,
I'll follow, you can lead the way.
Would that be bliss or ignorance?
Wait, isn't that the same?

Leave me stretched about in nature's
clouds of wavy strands and teach
me how to stumble through the sand,
show me how to meet the beach
halfway through de land.

There are no shorelines in our minds,
there is no white or black,
knowing all these different kinds
may exist together, is something many lack.

It's about what you want
and are
willing to do
to be
come
with yourself
let you guide you
to be better than you
and still you.

It's not that hard to do.

As you well know it doesn't breathe
in fame nor fiction,
doesn't breed
in frames and friction.

It is on top
of all
elusive
as the flop
we all
chase
before we trip and drop
over our skip and stop
shoelace.

Few will rise and all will fall.
Everyone will find their roof
and bash into their gravestone wall.

There are no answers behind the stone
you meet
only in yourself, when open, grown
the ability to greet
humility.

Men will tumble
right before their fall.
Some at home
some with their mother,
with their father.

Some in grades,
some in shades of different
ladies.

Some in smoke,
some in mirrors,
some in brown cloaks,
some with scissors,
some from bridges,
some at work.

Some in the midst of exceeding expectations.
Some whilst grappling with the growth of misunderstood frustrations.

Some in their house
or in their car, distracted by a call,
and the worst of all
are possessed by war
all throughout their fall.

Zojuist vernevelde vernedering,
mogelijkheden breed, kans gering.
Ik dacht zowaar dat ik wat wist
terwijl ik naast de vliegen ving.

De gralen dralen als gestaltes
voor mijn wolkjes op het blad.
Ik zwaai naar de haltes
van op de bus, van op het rad.

De flat groeit en ik stijg mee,
de wereld blijft hetzelfde,
ongrijpbaarder met elke snee,
met elk verwijt.

Ik leg me neer op het tapijt, vul mezelf de ballon:
Er is geen juiste realiteit, enkel keuzes, zoals
aanvaarden of de bon.

Om de zoveel tijd waait een wind
door de kamer. Ik blaas mezelf
van mijn sokken met ideeën over
overstijgen van plebeën.

Als de hoos stopt
en het draaien stil valt
confronteert de realiteit
en ga ik mokken,
bokken
alles doen om niet te aanvaarden
niet te moeten accepteren
dat ik een gewone jongen ben
die nog veel heeft te leren.

De fantasie is geniaal,
de sokkels, het kabaal.
Helaas, niks wordt af gemaakt,
behalve dan het niet moeten kiezen.

Allemaal hetzelfde
en toch nog ook verschillen.
De één al aan de elfde,
een ander aan de pillen.

Tijd is kostbaar
Het is geld
Het wordt verdreven
Het vliegt

Als het stof gaat liggen
Slechts van gedacht een fractie
vertaald wordt naar een actie
Dan resten woorden zonder monden
Berouw komt na de zonde.

Elk woord, elke zwaai,
elke poort, elk gedraai
verandert de verwachting.
Wie blijft prutsen tot het beste
in een algemene achting
treft geheid nog minder zekerheid.

Want *** meer ik wik, vermijd,
*** meer het weegt, mijn spijt.