Ce Titre Est Francais.
C'est aujourd'hui demain hier.
[Today is tomorrow's yesterday.]
Cyclisme libre, à travers le vieux Paris.
[Cycling free, through old Paris.]
Hitler a perdu la guerre, nous sommes sur le plancher de danse.
[Hitler has lost the war, we're dancing on the floor.]
Et après, nous buvons du vin et le thé.
[And afterwards, we drink wine and tea.]
Liberté pour la France. De la liberté de la Terre.
[Freedom for France, and freedom for Earth.]
De la liberté De Nazis et de la liberté wurst.
[Freedom from Nazis, and freedom from wurst.]
Il n'ya pas lieu de s'inquiéter, pour Paris.
[There's no need to worry any more, for Paris.]
Tant que nous avons les uns les autres, vous et moi.
[As long as we have just each other, you and me.]
It's been a while, thought I'd let you know.
The many reasons, I let you go.
If it's not too hard, then take a seat.
This could be rough.
The first words you spoke, were words of love.
You knew what you wanted, when push came to shove.
Your eyes would sparkle, a brilliant show.
Was I too scared?
Our paths crossed, too soon.
And our minds, were blown.
I tried too hard.
To kiss you.
It's been too long, I've forgotten your face.
The look in your eyes, the smell of toothpaste.
Your hair on my cheek, my hand on your waist.
Was I alone?
In other words, I was not shown.
If I was in love, if I was at home.
I felt scared of you, so I ran away.
But did it hurt?
Life goes on, it's true.
But what's life, without you?
Oh, how I tried.
To kiss you.
I was the darkness, to your blinding light.
I was sometimes wrong, while you're always right.
You were the sunrise, after cold sleepless nights.
Est-ce la fin?
Words alone, can't heal our pain.
But let me tell you, just the same.
My heart still beats, and
Settling Distant Insomnia.
I sat beneath the overshadowing tree, the park breeze causing me to become a little flustered, blinking feverishly as I looked up from my notebook, trying to combat the air's effect on my vision. An unusually inquisitive girl was staring right back at me. I immediately looked to my left, trying to avoid her gaze, then returning to my notebook, fragments of different poems scribbled all over the one page.
"Watchya writin'?" she asked, the inquisitiveness now shining through her voice.
"A poem..." I grunt. "... well. Lots of poems at once."
"Cool. Do you put them on deviantART?"
"Yeah, I do, deviantART is really cool."
"Yeah, it is, isn't it!"
I laughed, not smiling from her sudden enthusiasm, but finding comfort in the fact that my poems would never see the light of day on that website. I hate that place.
She looks at me, and I notice her give a contemplative look, out of the corner of my eye.
"Hmm. They're not very good..." she says, matter-of-factly.
It's this remark alone that causes
I sometimes wonder.
Wonder whether or not I am the cause of everyone elses' unhappiness.
The little girl, her hair vividly blonde, her brilliant blue eyes masked by the blemish of tears.
She has been denied an ice cream cone. This is as close to depression as a little girl can get.
I am the one who whispered in her mother's ear, not to give her sweets so early in the morning.
And yet, did she even hear me? Her own unhappiness clearer than the light that fights to shine through the increasingly dark clouds.
A burning drop of rain distracts me from my thoughts.
Fuck. When did rain start to hurt so much?
I used to love the rain. Dancing in it. Splashing in it.
Now it just scorches my skin.