Marta Owczarek - Another One from the Shower

So after some time of unusual upheaval,
And indeed, fragility of openness,
I only come back to the feeling of having to acquaint myself with more literary heroes,
So as to know how to metaphorize my inabilities;
To encapsulate the good time in an amber, like a scary mosquito,
And continue to dwell in the miserable analysis that I mistake life for.
What is reality, no matter how good, if it transforms into the past? Another form of fiction
Tonight, today, I dreamt my mother died, and although I didn’t cry myself awake,
I felt the horror and despair. I talked to Peter in the dream too, and the peaceful feeling of achievement and appreciation was right there, like on a day someone tells me I look nice.
I don’t think it’s idiotic to interpret my body signals as a warning.
I’m in all ways unprepared, having bad skin and posture and figure and face
Bad time management and immunity, and the denying of pleasure
And here now, she who is alive, she who pursuits the undergoing vein of oxygenated blood,
The current and the spark,
She is brought down by her own parents and deemed, precisely for this, regrettably and irresponsibly ungrateful.
I can scream down the line very well, swearwords I can’t hold back even next to my little sister, so what do I know about any sort of respect or judging misbehaviour.
All I do is feign inspiration in the shower, or when walking,
Never when I can actually produce any form of record of the thoughts that naturally flow free When let go, and maybe form interesting conclusions; but then I still use the dictionary,
So could I ever write for a living?
I refuse to accept the linear nature of time and feel utterly defeated by the unsuccessful attempts to fight it much more than I am bulversed by politics;
The problem of overflowing eyes that ruin make-up is an issue the gravity of global warming even on a good day.
I don’t expect anything from the governments; only someone could help me dissolve into a million pieces and blow me across the surface of time, so like dandelion seeds I could spread myself over it, and become paradoxically, idiotically, irrationaly and irreally whole.