I am from yellow newspapers and old books
from Playmobil policeman fighting crime
and ghosts stories while praying scared in bed
I am from the small garden with a steel swing
in a house that dreams of escaping to Loch Ness
I am the weeping willow that stands alone
in a Cold War between mom and dad
I am from baking waffles and tasting its liquid paste
within my grandmothers protective cave
I am from the absent father and the one who gave me a last name
from being a dreamer who’ll never grow up and flies aside with Tinkerbell
I am from working and praying is holy, other lusts is going straight to hell,
until I met Nietzsche’s Antichrist and I had to believe in something else
I am from Brussels wounded image with some old relics hidden high
from hiding into the kitchen behind macaroni with meatballs and French fries
From a grandfather who survived Dresden in a prison and working camp
and a mother who tries to be a woman respected by her man
I am from big bad bullies and fighting them back
showing of the girls and remembering a lost and found child
like a plastic balloon racecar, when you blow it up
it races away, fast and empty, until you forget about it
Finally, I am from heroes and villains
– and the great stories they left behind.
