on Postcard #5 - Berlin - Songs for the Sleepless



These days I feel like I'm your tax
declaration, I'm your dentist appointment,
I'm the battery in your smoke alarm that
you need to change. And you're avoiding
it, procrastinating every chance of
contact that we might have, ain't that a
bit strange?

Tell me where the blissful days went when
I was more than a redundant little trinket
on the sideboard of your life, a speck of
dust on your floor.

I'd be the needle and the yarn if your
heart required mending, be the paperclip
when all important documents were
lying loose, just turn me into something
neccessary, something like a knife or a
cup or a bandaid - something you can
use. And then tell me where the blissful
days went when I could feel more like
a gift than than like a burden, more a
blessing than a curse, and had hope that
old scars could heal.

But don't you dare to say I still could
change your world for the better and
then go and make me feel as useful as
a sweat stain on a shirt, as important as
the caps lock key when you only type in
lower-case letters.