made in france

mwillebien@gmail.com

Inner battles. 

Complex and buried, 

Explaining the reason behind

A feeling 

Can become a headache. 

Affirming our character traits,

One experience confirming another.

A lived knot of history, 

shaping our greatest

Time runs, time is given, 

Time is offered.

Surrounded by choices,

The paths are many.

This pressure, this urgency,

The need to flee, to run,

To not miss out.

Each path is a door

To a new home.

If I stay at point A, 

I loose access to point B.

Home is me, to escape 

The pressure and the rush.

Home must be me.

Deep, invisible bonds, protecting and guiding us, drawing strength from mutual love.

It's a tacit pact of support.

There is me,

There is you.

There is me, then there is you again.

You categorize, organising 


Based on my emotions.

A certain place for you,

A lot of space for you.

And supposedly,

A place for the Grand You.

A box of fireworks that adorn us,

Meant to project an image-an

Image is not always reflected when social codes don’t align.


The self-image projects

is thus distorted when other’s perceptions shift based on our differences.

each person sees you as

a different person

Attention

Captured by their

gaze. We communicate

Without words.

Around us, nothingness.



A racing heart,

Slow movements.

An implacable reality

Holds me back.

What is evident

cannot be.

I saw her

suffer.

She is in pain,

She is in pain,

And that pain

is me.


She cries,

And that cry is me.

Everything finally 

Makes sense.

Today, I realize, 

It was for me. 

Striking figures.

One is a square,

Fractured.

The other one a triangle,

To proud to be one.

Together,

they trace 

An obvious curve.

A heavy head,

a light mind.

Fatigue and well-being 

Walk beside me.

Lightning strikes 


Through my thoughts.

Bringing me

back to intense,

Confused excess. 

Tired.

Tired of being tired.

Tired of keeping 

My eyes open.

Tired of feeling.

Tired of being present.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of dancing.

Tired of not

forgetting.

Overwhelmed

By exhaustion.

The clouds are

approaching. 

When the cobblestones

Become a dance floor,

When the starts 

Turn into lights,

When out bodies form

And deform- 



You and I, my friend,

We dance.

Our minds elsewhere,

We dance.

[ contact ]

mwillebien@gmail.com