Sometimes rhyme flows
like hours you don’t want to stop.
Today eternity is every minute,
pain is liquid, fulfilling the reason.
You are searching for the words in the base,
but the search is just returning the blank.
Spasam is a hardcore beat, isolating the left side of me.
You want the flow, but silence is just a deep void.
Beside the bed the dictionary,
so the brain can translate this chaos properly
in order of the metaphors with a touch of my style,
but there are no words or synonyms alike,
no 800gr of Ibuprofen, Diclofenac or Caffetin
more than analgetic, tonight you need the rhyme
to shift the focus. To redirect the signal,
from the receptors of pain, into creative spite.

I am not immortal,
but pain makes me, as one now
hours are not passing in the search
for the words – deep inside
some sectors are unavailable today,
so I don’t have access there
somebody occupied my brain
and are redrawing new maps
on the neurological surface
three days less of life,
but I want to be alive
I would erase these days,
in a blink of an eye
because I couldn’t care less
whatever happens,
I will know by heart
the dramaturgy of the pain
and everything it does.

While I am waiting
for it to stop for a while
I am imagining a journey
ahead in time
1000 years ahead
in my head
in the distant future tense
I am regulating the state
with a spike – direct in the brain
I am sending the message
Stop the pain!
Refocusing it with a smart toy
Design of attention
has its own powers
Innovations from
cognitive neuroscience
for the distraction of the pain
for every single of us
accessible to all women
without paying much
again my speculative utopias
because I don’t see well now
alternatives around us.

So I am imagining further
neuroscience beats in the future
pain with creativity even poetry with rhyme
to shut down the spasm governing around
local anesthetic revives all other senses
Maybe even earlier I use words as analgetics
I prescribe myself a meter of poems
for my ups and downs, particular needs
and all of my emotional problems
then I am questioning myself
where I get durability again
for all that life serves to me
brings or touches me, these days
in words is the strength
transformed into a rhyme
to be delivered to an audience
for understanding why am I sometimes absent
when I focus on my micro
struggles, defeats, victories, success

With words, I fight against painful anatomy
I am only a slam poet, I am analgetic, if necessary
By the old recipe, the dose is as follows
to take in one time at least 555 words
in the morning and in the evening before every course
I put focus on a language, metaphor as analgetic
pain is removed by this poetical storytelling
while I put thoughts in the perfect metrics
I didn’t even notice, the fade out of signals
in the back that had happened
hours are again hours, and the minutes are the same
the day is long as it has to be, to be called a day
rhyme glides smoothly again from head to hand
with the clearance in the mind, I am handling it all the way
for some other emotions in eternity, there is a place
maybe for something that is most looking like happiness

Until another episode
the body is resting
for the same old circus
for the high jump, over the bar
over the pain thresholds
to beat all the records
while in the spasm
falls the organism
and the cycle begins

Sometimes rhyme flows
like hours you don’t want to stop.
Today eternity is every minute,
pain is liquid, fulfilling the reason.
You are searching for the words in the base,
but the search is just returning the blank.
Spasam is a hardcore beat, isolating the left side of me.
You want the flow, but silence is just a deep void.
Besides the noise and fury, which overcomes the reason.