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Bulgur

This recipe I wrote for Simon:

onion (s) and garlic fry
Bulgur saute
& double the amount of vegetable broth or white wine to simmer add
(ie level 1 cup bulgur wheat, 2 cups vegetable broth finished)
1 / 4 hour leave (or . sometimes most marked)

Add Optional

• cinnamon / cardamom
• chopped tomatoes (not tomato paste, etc.)
• parsley
• vegetables
• eggs
  
• fantasy

(under the label of poetry, as some recipes are really a poem.)

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I - or more?

A silhouette on the wall as
Made by man:
The image of the image.

Can you fill it with colors
Or is it gray, full of deep scars?
The uncertainty of mourning.

A beautiful smile hidden by shadows. If
brought the image back to life?
The sweetness of love.

blood freezes? - Blood pulsates!
death or life?
court and forgive!
So much very close - close - inseparable!
disappeared The image of the image,
the image of the Supreme reinvented ...
Created.
rest. Time and again after the dance of emotions ...
rest.

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poem (one of many)

longings, nothing but excuses

a reality

fears sows. The

me formally implores

stay away from her,

me to describe the days

with imagination, not to forget

,

fears that eat soul

stay still awake, distribute

nightmares.

The world is unhinged,

shifted my perspective completely

it rotates back and forth in the waltz step,

creating entirely and truly out of step.

I can not keep up,

off my life,

am caught in such acts of nature,

'm blinded by such Lebenshaß,

I find this really fucked up and gross.

Why do I think when there is so little?

Why I hope that Daddy loves me?

stay Why do I, that he forgives me?

sure why that guilt does not push it in my shoes?

I want to get up, go with

right

not just stand, not only see

disease.

I'm tied to the soil, lies my soul

flayed,

during dreams I walk around,

my dearest hope customers.

The shop is closed,

like a fool, undaunted,

tear I humorless antics

have fired without my knowledge the bird.

Pink colors in a poem, create

it not

the world to dive in a different light

what do almost all of them.

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What do I want?

A few things come to mind immediately:

• I want to drink just as happy at that moment was.
• and other banalities. Point.
  

point (oh so that I had already mentioned). Still, point. But this is precisely the point:
.
.
.

.
.


more I find not just one. Because everything else is so buried that I do not really know. This does not mean that I would bury my ideas, because I do really a lot.
Only if God - or any other person - ask me that, I have no verfünftige answer, I am totally perplexed wonder where there may be a question a lead in life.
I want a lot. I know almost nothing. Actually, even nothing.

is life itself?
Is love means to an end?
If God is the purpose for which funds?
Or perhaps both?

What do I want?
I want to sleep and hope I wake up tomorrow and knows it. But I have to assume that things that need to be excellent, to be developed.