Repeat after me

There is no light to
Show the way home
And there is no place for you to
There are no hands on my back
To tell me what to do –
I will not obey.
I should not obey.

And I lie. Like you.
The strangled words are
Nowhere to be seen,
But then again,
So are we.

Breathe again.

There is no smile. Not even eyes.
Not even him.
He doesn’t know that I lie
Like he does
He doesn’t
Know that when he’ll wake up
It will be another
Sweet illusion.

This is imagination.
This is the lie I warned you for.
There is no light to guide the way home,
And there’s no place for you to sleep.

Yet another sleepless night.
Yet another pointless smile.
This is the
Imagination and I lay here
Nowhere to be seen.
The illusion he wakes
Up to – why do you laugh?

You laugh to keep
It real. To crush
This irony. Another pointless face.
He waved illusions around
Me, and I fell asleep.
Too many times.

We’re terrible people.
Like you
I break promises and wave
These words around you
To make us both believe
This imagination.

If only I could stop this.
If only it would have a point.
Another sleepless night
With another pointless face.
There is no light here
And there’s no place for you to sleep.

Repeat after me.

Look, a poem! A good poem? A bad poem? Or just a sign that there’s a need for drama?

Ten percent

A week ago, WordPress kindly informed me I’ve been blogging here for two years. Two years, that’s almost ten percent of my life. I was kind  of surprised as I still clearly remember the time when WordPress kindly informed me that I had been blogging for a year.

So much has happened!

Times goes so fast!

*fill in another obvious remark on time*

I feel like I’ve been getting better at blogging. I even wrote what I consider my best English poem (To get me out) and my best English short story (Thin air) so far. You know, I even considered stopping with this blog after having written Thin air. Not because I was tired of it, but because I strongly felt that there was nothing left to write anymore. Until I found another topic a few days later on.
But still. For a while I thought I wouldn’t be able to write something that would feel as good to me like that story. Which sound pretty pretentious now I’ve written it down. It actually felt like this though – what else could I write? Would it ever feel as finished as that story?

Of course I couldn’t stop blogging. That would be silly. I’ve been doing this for almost ten percent of my life! Probably even a full ten percent since I started earlier than two years ago. No regrets. Internet is great.

And one of the best things about blogging is that it makes you feel like you accomplished something when you’ve written a post. Even when writing that post caused you to not finish exercises, not learn something you should learn or not cleaning when there’s dust everywhere. But you guys don’t see the dust or the open books here! You only see a new post and you still read that stuff I write. So thank you all for that, and let’s stay in touch.

You can’t ignore such a well written demand.


It was Mooselicker saying I should write poems on every month, so thank him if you like these.

It’s June, the sun has returned
(And guess what, my legs were already burned)
But now I’m inside, finals coming up
And I’m so tired I can’t even use rhyme anymore…


The trees are beautiful green
We’ve already entered May
Then why the hell I ask you
Are the days still f*cking grey?


To get me out

Tides may turn, turn the dead end roads within me
Turn back time towards me. Waves of infinity
To wash ashore and leave me be.


Bring hope, give it to the trembling body.
I waited ages for us to meet and lay floating
In my inner desiring sea.


Listen to a conscious voice inside me
Run. Now. Flee.
Don’t watch the tides turn – they trick
Your mind as you trick me.

it’s never. You will survive and see
Overwhelming waves drowning
The certitude that used to be.

Lost within the disarray of my body,
I refuse to obey this. I refuse to comply.
Rather trying to find out cunningly
Whether I’m wasting my time and me.


But there’s ends to everything, you see.
I’ve always known this, supposedly.
Perhaps denied the upcoming, too badly,
Because of your chest and hands and all – manly…

I could turn my back and walk away,
Create this end so viciously.
Going under in my sea, indistinctly.
Putting an order to things again, as it should be.

To get me out.
To get me.



*What you get when you spent an hour reading about literature and poetry. You start to hope that one day, they’ll analyze your writings. You try to write something. You fail at catching what you wanted to catch within these words. But somehow, I’m still a bit proud. I somehow got to say a bit of what I wanted to say.
Reading and understanding’s up to you.*

A mess, a mess, it’s all a mess…

You better leave no traces of whatever you do
Cover it up and pray they won’t know
What you did, what hope grew inside you
There’s a chance it won’t work though

There’s a chance everything will go
And leave you with relief
Or else it will haunt you so
You won’t even know what to believe

Just don’t believe you’ll get out.
You’ll be in for as long as it takes
For everyone to judge, to shout
To not understand ’till it aches

Just don’t believe you’ll get out
The way you want to leave this mess.
Drag it around and then find out
They care about you even less…

My head is about to explode because of all these thoughts. This was just to let go of some of them. I had absolutely no idea what would be coming out when I started writing. It’s not even good, but it’s quite a good insight of my thoughts right now. Everything’s getting a mess. I’m so very sure I’m heading to the end, I’m at the edge, and I wasn’t about to regret it, but somewhere I will regret the fact that it’s all over.
But it isn’t over yet. Some things can’t be turned around. What to do when people start freaking over that? What to do when everything is getting this absolute mess?

What’s the point of forgetting…?

A Song

I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish you sat on the sofa
And I sat near.
The handkerchief could be yours,
the tear could be mine, chin-bound.
Though it could be, of course,
the other way around.

I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish we were in my car,
and you'd shift the gear.
We'd find ourselves elsewhere,
on an unknown shore.
Or else we'd repair
to where we've been before.

I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish I knew no astronomy
when stars appear,
when the moon skims the water
that sighs and shifts in its slumber.
I wish it were still a quarter
to dial your number.

I wish you were here, dear,
in this hemisphere,
as I sit on the porch
sipping a beer.
It's evening, the sun is setting;
boys shout and gulls are crying.
What's the point of forgetting
if it's followed by dying?

Joseph Brodsky

Time goes faster than I could believe, therefore I was convinced I had posted something recently... 
Dear lord, where did all those other days go? 
This poem fits in the melancholia I've been talking off before, but I wanted to share it anyways. 
I found it in my manual on literature, and it struck me with its simplicity and truth.

To darkness and to me

Nothing but footsteps in an empty street.

No one to see. Sleep, people, sleep.

Keep your world small – pillow, human, sheet.

I will stay awake. I’ll walk.

There’s hunger I’ve caused which I must feed.

I know I shouldn’t run away.

Take me there, take the lead.

Force me to stay, make me talk.

I can feel my heart and body beat.

And the people sleep, sleep unlike we.

But I don’t want to feel the need.

It’s a dead end road, walk away, decisively,

And leave the world to darkness and to me.

I kind of stole that last line. Apologies.

And all the flowers were mine

Sometimes… Sometimes it’s okay to look back with nostalgic eyes. Sometimes it might be good to remember. Melancholy. Every now and then. Just to remind yourself of the fact that there are moments you want to relive…

What is better than a touch of Poe then? I mean, add one letter and you’ve got poem. Says enough I believe. I like his poetry a lot, because it makes you feel the melancholy really well. The sentence ‘and all the flowers were mine’ has been eddying in my head for a few weeks and then I decided to search for the poem. It struck me again with its flow and sadness. To you in blogosphere…

To One In Paradise
– Edgar Allan Poe
Thou wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pine-
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
“On! on!”- but o’er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!For, alas! alas! me
The light of Life is o’er!
“No more- no more- no more-”
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree
Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams-
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.

Don’t bring the light

Don’t bring the light.
I hide between the sheets.
Cover me up, bury me deep, to
Never wake again.
I hang onto the night.
Let’s forget what daylight looks like,
Let’s forget the other side.
The world’s sheets and there I lie.
Don’t bring fright, for I deny
Anything that could strike,
That could pull me back to this mortal side.
Wrap me up in warmth, dig me a hole.
Maybe this could turn the tide.
A pillow’s fortress where I’ll be left sole.
I’m hiding deep inside.
Don’t bring the light.