Withered: (No Name Currently) Poem by Adrian Jascha Tetzlaff

As the days turned to a dream
I could feel something,
I thought was never real
(now I hope it wouldn't be real)

I could feel the freedom that was always caught far in time
I never lost a part of me, bloody stomach, act in stupidity as something for coping life
(as the damage is already made in fear)

Living under a tombstone imperceptibly seemed to be fine,
as the last night, my stomach wanted nothing else than me to die
(my stomach was to weak)

Choked on my dirty self,
the vomit seemed never ending
Air felt unknown like some hieroglyphic sentence
(my lung thickened with the vomit of my past)

Was it the night where fate was almost something that I could consider my own demise?
(in the end I'm here never last)

Never was closer to death because my stomach wouldn't end the trip,
never could I do something, my body was rotten, my troth numbed and still covered by being sick
(that was the moment I felt alive)

Sloppy touch on my neck, as I will never move back
Accept the fact that it could have ended, but now I need to live by being perfect


I cried for everything that seemed to be important for me,
tears and blood mixed in the floor
No one tried to help as my body slowly lived in placidity,
when it became one with the dirty corridor

After you're forced to stay here, even when you said goodbye,
you get in touch with time, when you realize the strain in your C6 that never seems to be quiet



Restless dreams of this being the last night
An open cocoon, an empty shell,
mirrors over mirrors, killing myself
Everyday feel like the last where I can watch the red moon light


Can you understand the feeling when death seems close and still be covered in regret
Not being able to change anything while your body waited for the ending days to set

Shattered promises, soulless dreams
Still after all of this
I'm just singing this repetitive melody
For others life is not empty and still just a fight against unfairness, traumatic melancholy

Even though, every day, my ability to help slowly sinks,
the poisonous milk of other's agony and sins
Even though talking and communication gets everyday more difficult, I won't stop when it's the only thing, myself can drink

My purpose, others pain relief,
someday someone will take for me the steps,
that will end the repeating scheme
As our colorful circle is the root of death