Come on, make me bleed
Give me all the pain I need
I'm tired of doing it to myself
Piercing me through
I thought I would ask you
You're already skilled in hurting me
It'd be better if you did it like this
And at least I'd have a say
All the scars would heal better this way
Come on, make me burn
Make me shiver, twist and turn
I lost the motivation myself
Drilling me through
I thought I could be killed by you
We already covered the basic things
Took the scalpel and cut my wings
Open old wounds by the day
None of the scars could seal this way
Come on, make me feel
Makebelieve to me I'm a little real
I can't tell it to myself
That I'm alive and true
I thought I could ask you
It's the only way to forget my despair
And all the angst that we both shared
Is it strange that I seek to be hurt
When it makes me forget this world?
Tuesday, July 28
Monday, July 27
Tools To Fly
I can't give you the tools to fly
You should have learnt it yourself
By now
Maybe if I dropped you
From the fifth floor or so
You would learn the hard way
And you'd be gone from me
I'd teach you it was easier without me
I can't give you the wings to fly
You should have found them yourself
By now
Maybe all you need is a push
A hint of direction where to go
You would go the long way
And you'd be gone from me
I'd hurt you to make it easier
Without me
I can't give you the will to fly
You should have found it yourself
By now
Don't you see that I lied to you?
That otherwise you'd die for me
And I couldn't let you
I can't give you the wings to fly
You should have found it yourself
By now
And left me
You should have learnt it yourself
By now
Maybe if I dropped you
From the fifth floor or so
You would learn the hard way
And you'd be gone from me
I'd teach you it was easier without me
I can't give you the wings to fly
You should have found them yourself
By now
Maybe all you need is a push
A hint of direction where to go
You would go the long way
And you'd be gone from me
I'd hurt you to make it easier
Without me
I can't give you the will to fly
You should have found it yourself
By now
Don't you see that I lied to you?
That otherwise you'd die for me
And I couldn't let you
I can't give you the wings to fly
You should have found it yourself
By now
And left me
Bucket Of Paint
You've delved into your canyon
And to the bottom of the valley
I reached out for you
To catch you
Your fingers didn't even try
You're falling deeper into your imagination
Where all the universe is against you
And my whispers don't reach you
That the world has other things to do
You've painted all your walls black
And for once I'm not the one
with the bucket of paint
You said the universe holds a power on you
But the universe is vague, and faint
Rest, in your valley
I tried to tell you not to jump
Your fall was more important than me
Apparently
And to the bottom of the valley
I reached out for you
To catch you
Your fingers didn't even try
You're falling deeper into your imagination
Where all the universe is against you
And my whispers don't reach you
That the world has other things to do
You've painted all your walls black
And for once I'm not the one
with the bucket of paint
You said the universe holds a power on you
But the universe is vague, and faint
Rest, in your valley
I tried to tell you not to jump
Your fall was more important than me
Apparently
Tuesday, July 14
Oblivious To All
You're in your own world
Where you can't be touched
Oblivious to all
That might capture your interest
Your eyes are worn and tired
You inspire me to write
desolate and depressing pieces
I wish for once you would look out of there
And see that I'm waving to you
I've set all the sails
And the ship is ready
But you're in your own world
Torn by worry and despair
Unknowing that we're there
In the bubble with you
You shunned us out
You play along half-heartedly
But you're not fooling me
I sing with my sore voice
All the sad songs I wrote of you
And of me
Of loneliness
But you're in your own world
And you'll never hear these words
You'll never see I'm hurt
You're in your own world
Scarring yourself deeper
than I ever could
And with darker intentions
than I ever would
Oblivious to all
Where you can't be touched
Oblivious to all
That might capture your interest
Your eyes are worn and tired
You inspire me to write
desolate and depressing pieces
I wish for once you would look out of there
And see that I'm waving to you
I've set all the sails
And the ship is ready
But you're in your own world
Torn by worry and despair
Unknowing that we're there
In the bubble with you
You shunned us out
You play along half-heartedly
But you're not fooling me
I sing with my sore voice
All the sad songs I wrote of you
And of me
Of loneliness
But you're in your own world
And you'll never hear these words
You'll never see I'm hurt
You're in your own world
Scarring yourself deeper
than I ever could
And with darker intentions
than I ever would
Oblivious to all
Monday, July 13
Drop By Drop
I keep it all inside of me
I hold it in
Like a breath
Waiting to come out
And turn into smoke
The promise I waited for
that I made for myself
It's vanishing now
Drop by drop
Either I let myself down
Or finally learned what promises hold
That they matter the most
the moment they're told
I keep it all inside of me
I hold it in
And I bought myself some time
_______________________________
Here you go Ayan, since I hadn't written anything lately.
POET in the JAR
I hold it in
Like a breath
Waiting to come out
And turn into smoke
The promise I waited for
that I made for myself
It's vanishing now
Drop by drop
Either I let myself down
Or finally learned what promises hold
That they matter the most
the moment they're told
I keep it all inside of me
I hold it in
And I bought myself some time
_______________________________
Here you go Ayan, since I hadn't written anything lately.
POET in the JAR
I got in!
Just yesterday found out that I got into Uni. I got in. I was good enough. I got in.
And yet all the doubt that has struck me lately must have stained me. I looked at the words "Accepted" over and over and felt nothing but... uncertainty. A feeling that everything was rushing too fast for me to grasp.
I went to sleep, thought that in the morning I would have decided. I hadn't. When I woke up I was just as confused as when I went to bed. After spending half the night turning the idea around and around.
Finally, I knew I had to make some kind of decision. If I was going to accept my spot, I would have to move fast. Semester starts in one month. I still couldn't do it. I've been totally freaked since the second I saw those words.
Suddenly it seemed surreal. I had been hoping for these news for a long time, and now I feel empty. It's too soon. It's too much. And I'm not done here yet.
I asked for advice from Bunny. She said to me the very fact I was so unsure said it all. That I should stay.
I still wasn't convinced.
At last I took a yellow note and tore in two pieces. Wrote pros and cons for each option. It was a sudden match, very even. And I knew logic and analyzing wouldn't help me this time. And since my heart was striding in two different directions, there was only one thing left to do.
I took the two torn notes, put them in a cup and shook it. I decided before-hand I would go for the option that first fell out of the cup. And no cheating. I was so uncertain anyway.
Out fell the note with the scribbled headline "Staying +".
Fate.
One more year here, before I head off to my dream education. What happens this time I have no idea. It's my last year in freedom. Hopefully by next year I will have learnt paintbrush, and developed my skills. Put all my creative emphasis on the novel publication. And earned enough money to go and live and work in Canada for two, solid months.
Then I can go back just in time to start the semester.
Now remains only the issue what to tell Mum...
POET in the DAMAGED GLASS JAR
And yet all the doubt that has struck me lately must have stained me. I looked at the words "Accepted" over and over and felt nothing but... uncertainty. A feeling that everything was rushing too fast for me to grasp.
I went to sleep, thought that in the morning I would have decided. I hadn't. When I woke up I was just as confused as when I went to bed. After spending half the night turning the idea around and around.
Finally, I knew I had to make some kind of decision. If I was going to accept my spot, I would have to move fast. Semester starts in one month. I still couldn't do it. I've been totally freaked since the second I saw those words.
Suddenly it seemed surreal. I had been hoping for these news for a long time, and now I feel empty. It's too soon. It's too much. And I'm not done here yet.
I asked for advice from Bunny. She said to me the very fact I was so unsure said it all. That I should stay.
I still wasn't convinced.
At last I took a yellow note and tore in two pieces. Wrote pros and cons for each option. It was a sudden match, very even. And I knew logic and analyzing wouldn't help me this time. And since my heart was striding in two different directions, there was only one thing left to do.
I took the two torn notes, put them in a cup and shook it. I decided before-hand I would go for the option that first fell out of the cup. And no cheating. I was so uncertain anyway.
Out fell the note with the scribbled headline "Staying +".
Fate.
One more year here, before I head off to my dream education. What happens this time I have no idea. It's my last year in freedom. Hopefully by next year I will have learnt paintbrush, and developed my skills. Put all my creative emphasis on the novel publication. And earned enough money to go and live and work in Canada for two, solid months.
Then I can go back just in time to start the semester.
Now remains only the issue what to tell Mum...
POET in the DAMAGED GLASS JAR
Saturday, July 11
Safeplace (With the Beatles and James Dean)
There's a library on the first floor. If it calls to be a library. It rarely has books. What it does have is photo albums, a fireplace and two comfy chairs. Next to the library is a dining room. Which no one ever dines in, unless for once we would be having dinner at the same time, and unless we'd ever be more than 3 people at home at once. Next to these two rooms are the kitchen and the hallway.
I know these two rooms quite well.
Below the hallway is the cellar. The laundry room and storage room. Where the ceiling is so low you have to crouch even at my height, and where the spiders are the size of tennis balls. Also here I've been from time to time.
On the second floor there are four rooms. Bathroom. My room. Living room.
I know these three rooms quite well.
Then there is Mum and Dad's room. The one that used to be mine. The room I was assigned here is their old room. It looks, let's say, radically different these days. The Beatles, Poets of the Fall and James Dean are on the walls. All lamps are red. There's bookshelves (with real and many books), a bed, a sofa, a chair and a desk. All this stuff is mine.
Of our entire house, this is what I know best. In just the short time I've lived here, it's become my safeplace. My haven. I sleep here, compose here. Do everything in here.
With of course, short detours to the kitchen for snacks and the bathroom for, well, nature calls.
Feeling like a stranger in my own old house,
POET in the GLASS JAR
I know these two rooms quite well.
Below the hallway is the cellar. The laundry room and storage room. Where the ceiling is so low you have to crouch even at my height, and where the spiders are the size of tennis balls. Also here I've been from time to time.
On the second floor there are four rooms. Bathroom. My room. Living room.
I know these three rooms quite well.
Then there is Mum and Dad's room. The one that used to be mine. The room I was assigned here is their old room. It looks, let's say, radically different these days. The Beatles, Poets of the Fall and James Dean are on the walls. All lamps are red. There's bookshelves (with real and many books), a bed, a sofa, a chair and a desk. All this stuff is mine.
Of our entire house, this is what I know best. In just the short time I've lived here, it's become my safeplace. My haven. I sleep here, compose here. Do everything in here.
With of course, short detours to the kitchen for snacks and the bathroom for, well, nature calls.
Feeling like a stranger in my own old house,
POET in the GLASS JAR
Friday, July 10
What's So Wrong With A Cinnamon Bun?
It's clear, where I got it from. Manodepression. Depressivity. Tendencies of sudden emotion attacks. Among else. And the answer lies in genes. I came to this conclusion after my beloved Mum had a complete outbreak of bursting emotion on me earlier today.
I said:
"Hi, you want a bun?"
And my Mum said:
"A bun can't comfort me. Nothing can comfort me. I'm angry with you, don't try to comfort me with a bun."
Me:
"Why? What did I do now?"
"You know very well what you have done."
Turned out, I didn't know what I'd done. But it had something to do with a pile of cardboard boxes lying around in my room (or, the room I was assigned when I moved back home, which has never really been my room), and something considerably more diffuse, having to do with me being a "small child" instead of a "grown child". Yay, accusations. My sis always replies to my stories of fighting with Mum, "You happy to live back home?" Haha, that really helps.
Mum kept on glaring at me with her famous evil eye for about an hour. Then I told her to go home from work instead of hanging around here. Apparently she was sticking around to see who else would say "mean things" to her. Hrm. Anyone who has lived close enough to my Mum knows she isn't exactly a heart of gold herself. I got sick of her insinuations and asked her to tell me exactly what I'd said that had made her so upset. She said sth about crying at work, then left the subject, and started telling some anecdote she'd heard on the radio.
It's like living with a giant cloud of mood swings whose middle name is Whiplash.
And what's so wrong with offering a bun?
War gifts did work in the past.
POET in the ASHTRAY JAR Who Isn't Entirely Sure Why She Felt The Urge To Call Herself Just That
Ahhh, I need a joint.
I said:
"Hi, you want a bun?"
And my Mum said:
"A bun can't comfort me. Nothing can comfort me. I'm angry with you, don't try to comfort me with a bun."
Me:
"Why? What did I do now?"
"You know very well what you have done."
Turned out, I didn't know what I'd done. But it had something to do with a pile of cardboard boxes lying around in my room (or, the room I was assigned when I moved back home, which has never really been my room), and something considerably more diffuse, having to do with me being a "small child" instead of a "grown child". Yay, accusations. My sis always replies to my stories of fighting with Mum, "You happy to live back home?" Haha, that really helps.
Mum kept on glaring at me with her famous evil eye for about an hour. Then I told her to go home from work instead of hanging around here. Apparently she was sticking around to see who else would say "mean things" to her. Hrm. Anyone who has lived close enough to my Mum knows she isn't exactly a heart of gold herself. I got sick of her insinuations and asked her to tell me exactly what I'd said that had made her so upset. She said sth about crying at work, then left the subject, and started telling some anecdote she'd heard on the radio.
It's like living with a giant cloud of mood swings whose middle name is Whiplash.
And what's so wrong with offering a bun?
War gifts did work in the past.
POET in the ASHTRAY JAR Who Isn't Entirely Sure Why She Felt The Urge To Call Herself Just That
Ahhh, I need a joint.
Tuesday, July 7
Stress Attacks
Something heavy, weighing on my heart. Soon the pressure spreads to my throat and makes breathing slow and difficult. Pulse races. Black and white spots in front of my eyes. I'm standing at work, and here goes another one of those stress attacks.
What would I do without writing? If I couldn't vent it here, get it out of me somehow. It's become more and more of my self-medication, seeking comfort and safety in creative things. It's one of many ways to cope in a country where you have to fight for your right to be sick, and be strong to be able to be weak. And where you make everyone believe everything is happy-go-dandy, when in fact, behind the surface, everything cracks. Everything breaks.
I have a smile glued to my face. My friendly voice sounds just alien and strange to me. I wonder many times why no one sees through my hollow laughter. Why no one knows.
People don't think I'm like this. They tell me I'm always the happy soul, always joking and talking. And I am. On the outside. I love being this person, but there is another, darker side of me that also has me in its grasp, and I'm getting tired of fighting it.
Sick of the voices in my head, but if I didn't ponder and question things I'd be a vegetable instead, which I completely dread;
POET in the DESPITE EVERYTHING GOING ON, SLIGHTLY HOPEFUL JAR
What would I do without writing? If I couldn't vent it here, get it out of me somehow. It's become more and more of my self-medication, seeking comfort and safety in creative things. It's one of many ways to cope in a country where you have to fight for your right to be sick, and be strong to be able to be weak. And where you make everyone believe everything is happy-go-dandy, when in fact, behind the surface, everything cracks. Everything breaks.
I have a smile glued to my face. My friendly voice sounds just alien and strange to me. I wonder many times why no one sees through my hollow laughter. Why no one knows.
People don't think I'm like this. They tell me I'm always the happy soul, always joking and talking. And I am. On the outside. I love being this person, but there is another, darker side of me that also has me in its grasp, and I'm getting tired of fighting it.
Sick of the voices in my head, but if I didn't ponder and question things I'd be a vegetable instead, which I completely dread;
POET in the DESPITE EVERYTHING GOING ON, SLIGHTLY HOPEFUL JAR
Monday, July 6
Circus Clothes
I wonder why everything has to be so confusing. Why I tattoo myself for the pain of it, trying to forget everything difficult. Why I dye my hair. Why I hate to change, while I am change in person myself.
This morning I drove to work with tears streaming down my face. In my head the same things repeated themselves over and over: I hate this black fake hair that's a mess. I hate this stupid car. I hate fantisizing about wrecking it on some cliff at the side of the road, and not having the guts to do it. I hate my job, all the people here, I hate it all, how I'm unwelcome where I should be most wanted. I hate the fact that I want to get away from here, but I'm scared that what I treasure most right now might be what I'd lose in the process.
Most of all I hate myself. How I look myself in the mirror and see someone cheap looking back, and the next second hate that I'd care. I rebel towards everything, and hate that I can't be normal, look normal, be someone.
I'm so sad. I don't know why. I mourn everything that has been. I get angry, over nothing, at people who I hurt myself. I call again and again the same person, but nothing is the same anymore, everything has changed. And I think I just miss him. Just long for him. Even though maybe for the both of us it was better this way.
Even though I should be happy right now.
But I guess I was never good at doing what I should.
POET in the SOAKED GLASS JAR
This morning I drove to work with tears streaming down my face. In my head the same things repeated themselves over and over: I hate this black fake hair that's a mess. I hate this stupid car. I hate fantisizing about wrecking it on some cliff at the side of the road, and not having the guts to do it. I hate my job, all the people here, I hate it all, how I'm unwelcome where I should be most wanted. I hate the fact that I want to get away from here, but I'm scared that what I treasure most right now might be what I'd lose in the process.
Most of all I hate myself. How I look myself in the mirror and see someone cheap looking back, and the next second hate that I'd care. I rebel towards everything, and hate that I can't be normal, look normal, be someone.
I'm so sad. I don't know why. I mourn everything that has been. I get angry, over nothing, at people who I hurt myself. I call again and again the same person, but nothing is the same anymore, everything has changed. And I think I just miss him. Just long for him. Even though maybe for the both of us it was better this way.
Even though I should be happy right now.
But I guess I was never good at doing what I should.
POET in the SOAKED GLASS JAR
Thursday, July 2
Error, Mistake
Your constant disbelief in me
has made me what I am
I want to kick off faster
And bite back harder
than you'll ever think I can
I want you to proofread me
See if I'm the copy you wanted
Error, mistake
Unknown to your affection
Wellknown by your hate
You always look away from me
It's made me this disarmed
I want to kick off faster
And fight back harder
Drop the weight off my heart
I want you to assess me
See if I'm the daughter you wanted
Error, mistake
Unknown to your affection
Wellknown by your hate
I'm five years old again
And show you what I draw
You won't remember next second
What you saw
So why do I keep seeking your attention?
And want to be taken in by you
When I know that trying until I die
is all I'll ever do?
Unknown by your affection
Wellknown by your hate
I know
You don't want my things lying around
Staining your otherwise perfect house
And your hate becomes apathy
And there's only empty space for me
You wanted to know why I always felt lonely
There's the answer, in front of you
That you never wanted to see
has made me what I am
I want to kick off faster
And bite back harder
than you'll ever think I can
I want you to proofread me
See if I'm the copy you wanted
Error, mistake
Unknown to your affection
Wellknown by your hate
You always look away from me
It's made me this disarmed
I want to kick off faster
And fight back harder
Drop the weight off my heart
I want you to assess me
See if I'm the daughter you wanted
Error, mistake
Unknown to your affection
Wellknown by your hate
I'm five years old again
And show you what I draw
You won't remember next second
What you saw
So why do I keep seeking your attention?
And want to be taken in by you
When I know that trying until I die
is all I'll ever do?
Unknown by your affection
Wellknown by your hate
I know
You don't want my things lying around
Staining your otherwise perfect house
And your hate becomes apathy
And there's only empty space for me
You wanted to know why I always felt lonely
There's the answer, in front of you
That you never wanted to see
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