How long can a person go
Without being heard,
Before it drives them mad?
.
How long can a voice
Fade into nothing,
Until its host follows?
Tag: Poem
PROTAGONIST
As we where walking along the sandy road I asked him to “tell me something nice.”
Instantly my mind conjured up this idea of a ‘Great American Novel’ in which the protagonist recalls how ‘towards the end’ his ex used to often say: “tell me something nice.” That experience would then go on to inspire the protagonists growth, around which the novel’s plot revolved.
Honestly, what a load of bull shit.
I refuse to be some cliché of a girl who’s tragic story is for some reason best told from the perspective of a man. I refuse to have my pain be the catalyst for growth, rather then my wellness. My story isn’t somebody else thinking about ‘what I could have been’. It’s me being.
A DYING FLAME
Up above, the starts shone bright
With the only light to dim them:
A bonfire fading its way to a memory.
.
When we danced in it’s dying glow
Time folded in on itself
And we kissed like brand new lovers.
Camping
From inside the open tent
We where both
Astronauts and
Deep sea divers.
ECO ANXIETY 1
When I told the therapist, I desperately hoped would work out, that I struggled with eco anxiety, she asked me to elaborate.
So I told the her, that I couldn’t stop thinking about climate change, and that that years exceptionally hot summer was a constant reminder that things where getting worse. When that very first session was over she gave me an assignment. To tackle the anxiety about the globe heating up, I should look into getting an air conditioning unit.
That therapist didn’t work out.
MY COLOR
I’ve seen the way
Loving you
Looks on people
.
It’s not my color
ICARUS
Being too comfortable in the water
I didn’t notice I was drowning:
An Icarus, who dove too deep.
.
Now I look up at the surface
Glistening with abandoned potential,
Helpless as I wait for sleep.
KEEP WRITING
I never wanted to be the kind of poet that writes about being sad- or about being unlucky in love. I never wanted to be the kind of artist who helped to romanticise the things that are difficult enough, on their own, to escape.
Oh, the magic I used to chase only to be able to put in down on paper later. Glowing oceans and turbulent seas, healthy friendships and self love. Those where the things I sought too romanticise.
But now the magic has run out and all that’s left to do is keep writing.
Writing Things Better 