Losing A Limb - Help Me Out

Were you ever curious of my writing?

Did you want to see my novel in print?
Keep reading.

It's like losing a limb. A child. Part of me, of everything that mattered. Of everything, in this dark world, that held any meaning to me.
The more I look into it, the more I find. Suddenly there's information everywhere. Everything says the same. About the agency. About the publisher. About the con man who is supposedly behind both.
I have been fooled, and I have been stupid. As the aspiring writer I am, I believed pretty words, I believed I would be brought to the market, I believed I would be sold.

Today I have found out that the agent I have been represented by for 1,5 years does not exist. The publisher they recommended to me does not exist. The financial risk I shared with said publisher is a scam. Everything I believed in, and held hopes for, the last two years, is crumbling.

I am today not a single step closer towards publication than I was in the beginning of the process. New Years 2007, when I made a query to the agency.

None of this information existed at the time I signed the contract.
I looked the company up back then and found no bad record. My friend aided me in it. It seems their various name changes is the key to keeping "clean records".

Back to square one.

And it's like losing a limb. A child. All my meaning. And, of course, all the time, money, and energy I have poured into this project since it first showed itself.

I need your help to get out of this black hole, and to prove to myself as well as to the world that my writing is good enough, and that I am good enough. I need your help to prove I am not stupid, though I may be very, very naive.

Help me find a serious agent.

Do not trust WL Writer's Literary. Researching it I have found that they have now changed their name to The Literary Agency Group, which is suspicious enough. Furthermore, they are unable to samplify their sales. In the Authors section, no writer is mentioned with full name and there are no references to any novels or retailers selling the novels. In my early days, I believed the agency was small and that it was the explanation.

As I said: very naive.

Do not trust Eloquent Books, AEG Publishing Group (who wow! Just when I looked up their adress had changed their name AGAIN! And is now called Strategic Book Group) or Strategic Book Publishing. Dear child holds many names, they say in Sweden. This child is not dear to me. I will bring this child down with me, if I can.

No serious agent or publisher will ever charge you any fee other than for print costs and connected costs.

Help me bring them down.

Help me find a new agent.
POET in the WIDE AWAKE, EERY, DISAPPOINTED and EMBARRASSED JAR
And yes. That many feelings at once IS possible.

Lucky Writer

Maybe I am, after all, a lucky writer. According to Swedish media today, the publishing houses in this country are being quite difficult towards their employed professional writers. Once again I come to think that writing full-time is a shiny dream, quite far away from where I am now.
But if I didn't fight for it, where would I be now?
If I don't keep that dream in the corner of my eyes, will I ever get as much as an illusion of it?
Probably not.
Considering the poor standards for writers here, I find myself lucky to have been taken in by an American publishing house (Eloquent Books), even if it is a joint venture program (which means I shared the economical risk with the publisher, and is a more unusual type of contract, but also more profitable in the end). Also Eloquent Books have told me this is an on-demand type of contract, meaning the novel in its finished form is stored digitally, and only printed if it's ordered, and then the exact number that was. Brilliant, really. This way we avoid all expensive prints of copies that might end up not selling, and in the end, everyone makes more money, and saves more energy.
A more recent update from Kira, the Art Manager at EB, tells me that the cover art will be designed simultaneously with the text design; which means I will not receive a cover until the text edit is completed. As many of you already know I'm editing myself, and it takes me a certain amount of time; but on the other hand, I am sparked in editing by knowing that as soon as it is fully edited and approved of, the cover will be designed.
Can not wait for this to happen. First of all it will be the first physical, authentic proof of the whole getting published-business - but almost as importantly, it will tell me how someone other than myself would interpret the novel into art. I wonder if it will match up to my expectations. I hope it will, and after looking at the other art coming from EB, I feel rather reassured.
Good thing I emailed the Art Department and got the info I needed, and didn't wait with editing until the cover was assigned, as I had planned - then I would have been waiting forever.
Page 111 was my last milepost. Not too much left!
See you later alligator,
Don't Forget To Write!
POET in the OBSESSIVE WRITER'S JAR

Even Stephen King Has Typos

Maybe I'm writing so much because this is the poorest month ever. Really, ever. Worse than around Christmas. Worse than January. Worse than all months I had to buy course books that were insanely expensive.
Either way it's good. Seldom has my energy been at such a level, about any project. Basically - I just want the damn thing done already, and the more I do every day, the closer I get. Easy as cake!
Too bad though this energy isn't channeled into any creative writing, just proof-reading. But since I have grown quite brain-washed by now, I even found typos and missing characters in a novel by Stephen King, who I'm sure hires a professional editor. That strangely gives me some comfort - everyone is merely human, and if a mistake should slip me, I don't think it would matter much, on the whole. I hope that's not the thing people would remember after reading, anyway.
Can't wait to get home and add some more numbers to the page count,
POET in the EDITING JAR
Strangely Creative and with Very Suspicious Eyes

Calculations & Smart Quotes

Did some modest calculations that if I edit in this pace, it'll take me 50 hours to finish the rough first edit. Wow! I better put another piece of charcoal on, as we would say in Swedish (better quicken up). I don't want the first edit to take 50 days if I can only do one hour a day, so... I'll have to do something about it. Today I have no work and so I have a good few hours off where I can edit away, swell. The worst part isn't editing itself, it's rather fun actually; it's that I'm freaking out I'll miss something, that I'll end up with some spelling mistakes or a sentence that sounds fucked up. It's rather difficult to keep all the editing rules in my head on one hand, and decide if a sentence sounds okay on the other. And I'm not even a tenth into the editing manual - there are tons, and tons, of rules I still haven't plowed through, that I still need to look up and learn. Just doing that takes time. Luckily for me most rules can be bent a little bit to fit my purpose, and since the publisher had my manuscript reviewed and they set the tone for me to edit in, the word 'compromise' definitely comes to mind.

Also I'm gonna need to learn how smart quotes work. I read the wikipedia article on it and I'm not much wiser afterwards.

Alright. Some loud My Chemical Romance and a few hours by myself here - I'll get stuff done in a jiffy!

POET in the JAR
Better not think it's impossible

Chicago Manual

Suddenly it seems to make sense, suddenly I'm not quite as lost anymore. I thought I didn't have a plan. I thought that I chose away education because of nothing but love, because of a bond I wanted to explore and that kept me swaying on the spot here. And indeed that was part of the reason, and I'm quite glad it was as well; however it was a big decision to make and I had many different arguments. One of them, was the novel.

One year away from any uni, taking jobs as I go and trying to make some sort of existence, I would live in the moment, and spend time working on the novel to get it ready for some kind of publication. Eloquent Books have required through their criticist that the manuscript be edited in accordance with the Chicago Manual of Style - a widely used system for written American English. It'd be hell lot easier to just hire some editor to do the work for me (two pairs of eyes better than one) but with funding, as you know, quite insufficient; I'm forced to do the editing myself. This was rather frustrating until today, when Al got me a wonderful PDF file - the manual itself, scanned and complete at 2600 pages length. Slightly intimidating, perhaps; the sheer size of the thing; but so far it has been a trumendous help. I cannot thank Al enough.

Anyway, it was earlier today that I realized I have spent perhaps too much time doing other things, when I was supposed to use this time off from school and other things to focus, get myself together, and pull this whole deal off. I think that maybe I can do it. I think that when I finally hold that copy in my hand, I will tremble, I'm gonna fucking break down when I think about all the damn work that has been behind it. It's gonna be such a fucking relief. Oh my goodness... it gets only harder and harder to grasp, to actually imagine... but I have to.

I kept writing, when no one thought I could pull it off, when people told me to lay off it, that it had no future, that it was never meant to be more than a hobby. I kept at it, and many frustrated times, many drunk times, many high times, many low times, it literally saved me. Getting completely immersed with another universe, letting the words form themselves as you note them down, it's... beautiful. And even if no one reads it, it will have served its purpose. It gave me calm. It salvated me.

And to be honest... this dump? My writing is all I'm good at. My writing is my ticket out of here.
No more messing that up...
POET in the DREAMY JAR

Teddy

I am not meant for this
The shadows streak by my corners
There's a wisp of it, stirring
Stroking my hair

My imaginary monsters
Come play with me
I'll let you be if you
salvate me

I'm not myself here
Where everything chases me
There's a wide grin, staring
Leaving the lair

My imaginary monsters
Come play with me
I'll let you be if you
salvate me

I miss all my memories
All the golden, all the safe
Please stay with me, Teddy
Until I'm stronger again, and ready

My imaginary monsters
Come play with me
I'll let you be if you
salvate me

Issues

Had a crappy day, everything feels like total... bonkers. It started out okay, I guess... worked the morning shift and got there early, had a nice flow until I opened up the store, then it was just busy, busy all day long until 2 PM. God, can't I ever spend some time doing nothing? I just spend my days flipping myself around between tons of errands without really managing... anything. What does it matter, really? Who cares if I don't do my grocery shopping or if I don't fold my clothes neatly enough, who effin' cares?

It's just everything crashing down on me, feels like it's catching up. Money issues, work issues, everything-issues. It's the same old lines, over and over again. "It'll get better next year/next month/next week", "It'll work out, it always works out", "Don't worry"... but I can't just let go of things. I don't know. I was supposed to use this year to flip out and just... float around and create stuff and just enjoy stuff. But what am I doing?

I don't have a fucking clue, I'm so fucking lost, and whatever, just, fuck this whole business, hate it all.
POET in the JAR

Dear Josephine

Dear Josephine
Did the wings fall off
from your flying machine?
We saw you when you went down
And the light that your comet strew

Dear Josephine
Are you more at ease
than we have been?
It's still empty here, all around
In the shadow since your heart withdrew

Josephine
They took you too early
You weren't ready
Josephine
In your machine,
Your engines died
Oh Josephine,
was it suicide?

Dear Josephine
Did you see the smoke
from your crashing machine?
We never found your black box
Among the debris that you strew

Dear Josephine
Are you in a world
we've never seen?
Maybe you were trapped and locked
While we pondered and our sorrow grew

Josephine
They took you too early
You weren't ready
Josephine
In your machine,
Your engines died
Oh Josephine,
was it suicide?

Dear Josephine
In your flying machine

Dear Josephine

You Imagined

I don't need another pretty picture
Stop talking about the northern lights
The sky is only black to me
Whatever you saw shining there
You imagined

I don't need your nuanced songs
I don't need your deep poetry
Or your words
Whatever you thought was mutual
You imagined

Get out of here
Why are you invading me
I don't need all the things
You used to tie me with
You only imagined

I don't need your ties anymore
Take your shining stars
And dream somewhere else
Whatever you cherished in life
You imagined

There's nothing waiting for you
You're not grand or special
You came here by chance
And by accident

I dreamed
And you imagined

About The Nook & My Novel Universe

I feel like being by myself. Writing. Editing, maybe. Pulling a blanket over my head and sleep for a few weeks, maybe. Sit with my laptop on my balcony, maybe, and write there. Yes.
I've made a strange change for the better (I guess that's what it is) in some ways. Like, since I moved here. I know I seem to move a lot. I'm running out of good nicknames for my various residences. There's always gonna be Myntet (literally: The Coin), Kråkboet (Crow's Nest), Lyan (The Lair) and of course, Landet (The Countryside/The Country). And the place we rejoiced at in Finland will always be The Hostel With The Great View (which was slight irony). So, what do I call this new, strange place, these 25 square meters with an extended balcony? So far it has just gone under the name of Halla - which is short for the name of the street and frankly, not very exciting.
I'm quite tempted to baptize the thing as Mitt Krypin - something that would mean sort of, My Nook. Saying it with the determinative article though sounds strange. Krypinet. Weird. The Nook sounds a lot better!
Anyway, that was a sidetrack. I was talking about my change for the better. Well, that doesn't stretch very far. It contains cooking and doing the dishes daily, washing clothes weekly, and cleaning. To be honest there's not much choice with such a small Krypin. One T-shirt on the floor and it looks like the third world war took place there. I guess I benefit quite a lot from having left most of my stuff scattered neatly across the bedroom floor at Mum and Dad's (on The Countryside).
Now I guess the only thing left to salvate is my restless artist's soul who is fighting to thrive right now.

Tomorrow will be neat. Going to a buddy's place to try out the beta of AION Online (getting out September 25th here). Can't wait! It'll light up my day. And it's going to be nice to have a day off. Seems this week I've been doing nothing but covering for everyone at work calling in sick. (And since you all read my stuff extremely thoroughly you by know now that I'm sick myself.) But hey, who cares? Tomorrow is a long, cozy day off and I'm going to isolate myself the entire weekend (besides the 10 or so hours I'll be working).

And about AION. It feels like someone actually visualized what I've been writing for years. After all my top novel universe is one where angels of different races battle eachother over principles and where a few individuals just want peace. Strange similarity, I say. And perhaps here goes the dream I had to make my novels a great MMORPG one day. Even if our creations had nothing to do with eachother really, I think I would still feel like a copycat. A shame. My novels would be pretty perfect to base a game type like this on. Why?

Well. The novels contain four races of angels, plus the humans, who are wingless. The angels in my universe are simply humans with wings. There's nothing divine about them - more like the opposite. The angel races have old grudges against eachother, and even though there has been innocence for many years, things are starting to stir towards war again.

The four different races are Solar, Sea, Storm and Soil angels (actually I had no intention of them all beginning at S, it just turned out that way).

Solars - able to fly high and close to the sun, hence their race name. They have thin wings that can carry them high on the drafts. They're equipped with double eyelids to protect against UV lighting from the sun and a common characteristic is their whitish, practically blank eyes. The top ability of the solars is their speed in flight.

Seas - equipped with gills to breathe underwater, and made to live half underseas, half on land. In water they are exceptionally elegant and swift, a trait that does not always follow them up into free air. Just as the solars they have double eyelids, the transparent layer of which closes and allows for underwater vision. The Seas are often referred to as Dews, which is a patronizing word that plays on their skills in water. The Sea capital is New Atlantis Havens, hidden under the sea surface and enclosed in a giant dome.

Storms - thick-winged and stubborn, residing in the mountains where they have adapted to foggy terrain. Their draft-resistant wings allows them to fly in very heavy winds. It is rumored that Storms possess the ability to conjure winds, thunder and tornadoes. Storms excel in technology and are the original inventors of the angel chopper, which is used for instance as ambulance transports. Storms often scatter their settlements and one of their most known ones is positioned at the Outer and Inner Isles.

Soils - skilled in herbology and nature, the Soils are the top contributors of medical supplies to help centers. It is said they can affect the very earth and seeds by their green fingers. Since the many farm raids by bandits seeing the value in medical stocks, the Soils have grown suspicious and are very protective about their trade. Soils adapt quite quickly to the environment and creates helpful, curing herbs as well as poisonous ones. The top Soil residence is Chrysant City, which is in the midlands.

See?
Perfect race backgrounds...
I'll be back on the subject,
POET in the JAR

Eery

"Are you sad because of the pain, or because you couldn't go to work?"
"Sad because of the pain... and because it's the last thing I could afford right now. Going to the doctor."

Woke up this morning with an intense ache in my right ear. It seems familiar, seeing I've had infections there before, but I have a hunch that's not what it is, not this time. Not sure what it could be. Feels slightly better now though, after I've slept 13 hours in total and they do say sleep is the best medicine... but it's not going to go away, and it magnifies every sound I hear, and is drilling into my head as if I had a crocheing needle piercing through there. What a portal. I have an appointment at 2.45 at the medical station, crossing fingers they'll help me there.

Feel quite bad though. Lent some money from Rockstar in order to pay the doctor's visit and I know he's low on money just as me. To be honest, I have no fucking clue how to survive until payday. Before this, I might have made it... but every penny wasted now digs a hole in my wallet, and I'm tired. So incredibly tired.

Luckily it's easy to make grand plans for the future even without any means or fundings.
Losing Herself In Dreams,
POET in the JAR

Year Of Music

It really is like I've stated before, 2009 is the year of music! After getting started on Spotify earlier today, I made a strange rediscovery of one of my favorite bands, Sounds Like Violence. A cover song I'd never heard from them before called Sammy, which is part of a tribute album for Afghan Wigs.
Had a hunch and went to their website. Found out they are releasing a new full-length album called The Devil On Nobel Street this year on November 9th. Amazing! I have been listening to their first albums, one full-length and one demo-like one, since 2006 and I know their every song by heart. Wonderful. And precisely the news I needed!
Other than that, of course POTF are a lot in the spotlight for me considering the meeting back in August. And I'm again listening, and loving their songs. Rockstar has overheard me listening, and before I knew it, I found Locking Up The Sun on a mixed CD he'd made. I'm pretty impressed by me (almost as much as by him). Well, knew he had nice taste, since he spent the week I was away in Finland learning how to play Carnival Of Rust, and we've played and sung that together.
Also only 19 days until finally I get to see Dead By April live. Awesome! Another wonderful Sticky Fingers night, I am sure. One month after that we've got the Swedish rock guys in Takida to look forward to.
Oh, and I almost forgot the song Monster by Itchy Daze, which you can not allow yourself to miss. Stumbled across this band after hearing them on Bandit (I have that radio station to thank for a LOT). Check them out!
POET in the JAR
Well, have to salvate myself with something.

Window

Was it lies that made you come here?
Was it lies that made you stay?
I'm illusions in your eyes,
pretty lights in window panes
Forget the safehouse and hiding place
that my love used to form
I am nothing but a window,
and I'm breaking in the storm

Are you still the lantern,
supposed to lead my way?
I mistook your light a thousand times
and got myself astray

Better handle that flame
with slightly better care
Who knows if I'd be breaking, darling
if you weren't there

Was it lies that made you come here?
Was it lies that made you stay?
I'm illusions in your eyes,
pretty lights in window panes
Forget the safehouse and hiding place
that my love used to form
I am nothing but a window,
and I'm breaking in the storm

Did you break the china
I entrusted in your hands?
I could hear it crashing, darling
My heart was in there

Better handle the next heart
With slightly better care
I hope you're gonna break it, darling
And I won't be there

Was it lies that made you come here?
Was it lies that made you stay?
I'm illusions in your eyes,
pretty lights in window panes
Forget the safehouse and hiding place
that my love used to form
I am nothing but a window,
and I'm breaking in the storm

I'm a glass window
breaking in the storm

Breaking in the

wind

Shiny

I pretend that everything's fine for you
I'm a worked out junkie and a drunkie too
Behind my polished surface
See how shiny it is
See that I'm a liar

And I'm transparent

How can you believe my faint smile
And my promise I'll take care of it all
Can't you see me when I stumble?
Can't you see me when I fall?

With you I want to desert this place
But I always yearn to be alone
And when I'm alone is when I doubt

When I'm alone is when I drown

POET in the JAR
Currently posting as Wolfzeus
And tired of everything

Dust And Memories

Should I be joyous about this? Really? Is this where we were all headed?
I'm looking around in my new place, another apartment to go to waste. Another room to feel at home in, while my mind strays elsewhere. Always dreaming of another place, another job, another shadow to chase. Isn't that always it? Never settled... never happy. I know this place won't be my home in a year from now. And it's almost as if I'm backing out of there again. I don't want another breakup from another place where I've rooted. I don't want to move again. Yet I'll never be happy where I am. Never be fully at ease.
And if I ever am... something will tear it up again.
Something will always... tear me up.

Strange, really.
I yearn for every new place I can get to see. I love the moving in and unpacking and "nesting". And equally much I hate the breaking up the roots, the stuffing everything into boxes again, stowing it away. I hate the going away. The last goodbyes. Knowing that everything will turn into dust and memories, and everything that happened to you here, everything that you were, will fade away.
Disappear.

I'm starting to sound like Woven, aint I...?
POET in the JAR
PS. Got the keys today, dropped a few things by. Tomorrow and Wednesday starts the real moving in business. Perhaps I'll throw some welcome thing when the weekend comes.
Anyway... looking forward to the first night there.
In every darkness there's gotta be some spit of light.
I have to be joyous.
Because if I stop to think, I'll be too scared to go on. And then I'll definitely be stuck here forever...

Another Addiction

It's gone too far
To the point where I need you
I'm not as strong as I used to be
I'm weak, and you weakened me

This is just what shouldn't have happened
I don't need another addiction
But you came along
And you're distracting me

What do you prefer
Being alone or addicted?

Please, stop
Turn around

Then I remember it's too late

It's gone too far
To the point where I need you

I'm not strong when I'm alone anymore

What Happened To The Dreams?

Writing is my only refuge. Writing and sugar. I immerse myself in a different world, far from everything here, yet so dangerously, vaguely familiar. All the time I'm eating chocolate. Sucking on the sugar as if it was someone to hold, someone to cherish. And just... writing. Sighing. Feeling like a crapload of shit about life.
What happened to everything I dreamed of? And why does it feel like I'm just wasting my life? I have many things to be happy for, but I just can't be. Something is just wrong with me.
And are we really lazy? Like Dad says?
I think something's seriously fucked with our generation. Before us, people worked like hell and never complained. We work half of their efforts, and get tired, burnt out, and collapse. Why?
Are we supposed to find meaning in this life? Are we shocked when we find that there is none?
Maybe it's just that we don't see the point in the old lifestyle, and the one we choose for ourselves is mocked by the older ones, and I can see why. We don't know where we're going. We have no idea. We makebelieve that we're a notch better than our folks, cause at least we got as far as to the point where we know something's not right about our lives.
But we're still a notch behind them, cause we have no clue whatsoever what to do about it.
POET in the DEPRESSED GLASS JAR
PS. Why is everything so much worse after having something that's the greatest thing ever? DS.

Fading Breath In Whispers

I don't want to leave here
Even though there's no one around
Only your scent

I'll stay where I can remember you
Where things are almost real
And your fading breath in whispers
is still what I feel

I linger in this place
Though you and me were only on lease
And on rent

I'll stay where I can remember you
Where things are almost real
And your fading breath in whispers
is still what I feel

I don't want to stray from here
And be gone when you return
To vent

I'll stay where I can remember you
Where things are almost real
And your fading breath in whispers
is still what I feel

I never want the bubble to burst
I want you to whisper to me again
And leave me in a dream

Except this time you'd stay

Let's Finnish

I'm aware I should be editing right now, and definitely not thinking this much about a certain Cade (most recent spawn of my imagination). I also am aware that if I did sit down to write on his story, defying everything that really needed to be done; I'd probably lose time, forget myself and about work and turn up 2 hours late.
So what is it about this guy, about this story, that I can't let go of? I know it's not going to run anywhere, and I might as well write it once the editing is finished.
I guess that is one of the writer's dilemmas - inspiration never strikes you when you need it, more like the other way around.
Recently I came to rediscover my love for libraries. Always something interesting in there that you can find. Last time I was there (my second time there, in the countryside library of course), I ended up leaving with a beginner's CD course in Finnish and a comic book version of Stephen King's The Dark Tower. Not at all what I was looking for to begin with!
Alright. If this Cade is going to insist on me, I might as well open up his document and get carried away with it, to get it done. At least for just a moment...
POET in the UNUSUAL AMOUNT OF PROSE-WRITING JAR

Hell In A Cavity

Snuff's pathetic. Smoking's pathetic. Morning hellos are pathetic. Everything, pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. This is my post-morning mood. It's 7.36 AM and I'm hellishly, hellishly tired. Do I have myself to blame? Partly, sure. I could have gone to bed earlier than 2 AM, and I didn't have to start that new story, that new idea, that was just... perfect. But overall, it's another kind of tiredness. It's the working-11-days-in-a-row-with-another-day-to-go kind of tired, in combination with the after-one-day-off-it's-another-9-days-straight kind of tired; spiced on the top with some freakish nightmares and novel deadline angst. Give me a break, I'm fading away. Dad says this tiredness is laziness. He thinks my generation just isn't used to working. Heh. Funny, when I worked at the school and had weekends off, I was never this tired. Why? Because it was a different job. Even though it was a lot tougher than my current one, it meant something, I felt like I was at least making a difference.
I don't make a difference here. I keep passing on tobacco and petrol, exchanging the same old lines every day with the same old customers. Some days it's alright. Today it feels like hell in a cavity, and that I'll be stuck here, forever.
I just want to sleep... but even when I get off from work, I can't. I have a million things that need attending to.
Just in case you won't see me online this very immediate future, I'm probably passed out in some corner.
Sis refused to start work at 2PM today because she was too tired. She goes on at 4. I know she worked a lot while I was away in Finland, but I sort of envy her a bit. I don't have the same guts as her, and it feels wrong to me to stand up and say "Hey. I'm tired. Help me." Maybe because I'm so fucking scared they'll be disappointed in me if I do.
POET in the SCARED and PARANOID INSOMNIAC JAR
PS. Was really paranoid this morning, drove all the way here crying. Missed John when I woke up. Hope he's alright. DS.

Our Photograph

Frozen time in a frame
Carried with me, always

Whenever I look at you
You will have forgotten me
Forever encapsuled
Where you can't abandon me
I kept our photograph

Frozen, dancing, in a kiss
Ever silent, and I'm missing you

Whenever I look at you
You will have forgotten me
Forever encapsuled
Where you can't abandon me
I kept our photograph

Carry on, walk away
Forget all of the photos
From back in the days
Do you remember
When this one was taken?

Mislead my way
Run from all of our memories
Back in the days
Do you remember
I was shaken?

Whenever I look at you
You will have forgotten me
Forever encapsuled
Where you can't abandon me
I kept our photograph

The Biggest Gift Box In The World

Extremely excited would be an understatement. It's almost being as excited as before meeting with POTF, but just almost! Today is Dad's 50th birthday party and what I'm looking forward to the most is seeing his face when we give him his present. See, we thought of this brilliant idea a few weeks ago. It sounded somewhat like this: "Hey, know what'd be cool? Like, really awesome? If we tried to like, build the biggest gift box in the world!" And the answer to that was somewhat like this: "Oh, and we could like, build it so that Dad can like, walk upright inside of it and search around for the gifts, we could plant them inside!"
And since we Ferms are people of our words, so be it. It has taken us a few days to finish it, but now it is finally done; and it's only missing the last few presents to be slipped into it from the back, where we left a handy little present-hiding hole. Haha! It takes a trailer to transport the thing. I gotta make sure my cam batteries are all charged, cause I don't wanna miss this for the world. And no forgetting it is filled with 350 balloons and inflatable toys of various sizes, and the fact that he'll have to cut his way in, which will make some pretty awesome and entertaining noise, I gather!
Feel like I need a sheesha right now, calm my nerves down. It's gonna be like 40 people at this party and they're basically all family (counting in-laws) and old friends to Mum and Dad, so I'm counting on hearing a lot of "Wow! You've grown!" throughout the evening. Pass me a joint! I want to avoid all questions about what I'm occupying myself with these days or why I'm not studying, or what I want to do with my life, etcetera. I hereby holy promise that every time I get that question I will have a zip of drink alternatively propose a toast. It's pretty awesome to be able to drink this time around. When Dad had his last great party at age 40, I was just 11, so. This will make a nice change of scenery. By the way I heard that one sheesha is equal to 16 packs of smokes. Is that true? Hmm.
Mum even made my bed and folded all my laundry while I was away. She must be really keen to make a good impression or she wouldn't dare step foot in my room. Especially not since that sign John gave me to "Keep Out".
POET in the SHEESHA-NEEDING JAR
PS. Also post-Finland and novel excited. Think that contributes? DS.

Edit Session

I reread, and I start thinking. This idea, this thought. It's been here before. I ponder it, I go over it, from a million different angles. Every line makes my thinking go further. And I just know that when I wrote that line the first time, two years ago, I was already thinking, already wondering. And now I'm thinking all over again, the same arguments I had with myself last time, the same train of thought. It's quite interesting, actually. Never thought a rewrite would give me this much! But then again, my old rewrites weren't very extensive. And I didn't pay as much attention to the writing itself. Now that I know the story by heart, I go like, woah. It's so deep and meaningful.
Can't wait to get it in print,
POET in the EDITING JAR
To some I know, I'm known as "Poet in Hejar" xD Ds.

Falling Through The Ice

Falling through the ice
Swept off by the streams
Seeing through your fading eyes
Fighting the urge to dream

Wake me up, try to pull me out
Of the water surrounding me
And closing in on me
Say the name of your sacrifice
And die with me

Drowning, hard to resist it now
Lost in remembrance
Lying, yours weren't hard to find
Wishing I could take back mine

Wake me up, try to pull me out
Of the water surrounding me
And closing in on me
Say the name of your sacrifice
And drown with me

Empty, I left all behind me
Nothing staying to guide me
Lonely, drifting to be free
Sinking, you're sinking with me

Wake me up, try to pull me out
Of the water surrounding me
And closing in on me
Say the name of your sacrifice
And die with me

Die with me
________________________________

These lyrics have a very special meaning to me, and I like the way the melody goes. Much inspired by music I've been hearing lately and things I'm going through at the moment. I will ask someone very close to me to try and put the acoustics to this song.
Meanwhile,
POET in the DELICATE, BREAKING, DECAYING GLASS JAR

Scalpel

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?

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

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

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

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 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

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

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.

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

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

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

Risks, Chances

It's a bit of a load off my chest, just getting that apartment out of the picture. I don't do much now. I stray between work, friends and Mum and Dad's, which is where I've ended up (for future reference I will use the phrase The Nest). It feels just a little bit safer. I'm just glad that for once I am spending a night at home, without anything that needs to be done except folding a few bags of clothes, unpacking a few boxes... I feel comfortable. I'm listening to really depressing acoustic songs and talking to new friends and old friends over the chat. It's OK. I feel OK.
Even though this day has lasted for what feels like forever.

Something's gone to my head, I'm taking chances and risks wherever I can. I step on the gas as much as I fucking can, and enjoy it, lean back and laugh. Even when the image of myself crashing grows the most vivid. I climb the highest jumping towers and throw myself into the lakes and oceans, even though it scares the shit out of me! When I'm in the passenger seat, I lean my head out the window and scream! I push the horn, just for fun! I rip up every wound, just to make sure it's gonna leave a scar, tomorrow I'm tattooing myself again, I have no idea what I'm gonna choose to do!

I want all my life to be like this. Everything is so breathtakingly beautiful. And everything that takes my mind away from heavier things is well.

All is well.
POET in the GLASS JAR

Mood Swing (Even Within This Very Post)

Something's gotta be wrong with me today. Everything right now seems just GREAT! In two days, we'll be rid of the apartment. I'm waiting for a reply from the publisher to see my book in print one day, maybe within the year. I'm back into writing, and I picture the ending of the third novel within not too far a time ahead. I've applied for a school that seems interesting, and that I think would entertain me in the long run. I'm living back home, I have good friends, the sun is shining and yesterday I bathed in the ocean, for the first time of the year!
Yeah, alright. Not everything is this shiny and sunny. I have a neverending wound on my finger that will leave a 2 cm ugly scar (because I'm sadistic and can't let it heal in peace). I still have strange mood swings. I'm in between of everything, I don't have a full time job, I just work hour for hour, day by day, as it comes. I can never plan anything, if I do I barely get time off from work, I have to say "I MUST be free these dates" or I have to stay behind, even though I don't even work that much! It's so weird. At least now I aint got rent to pay, so that's good.
I feel like buying a bike and a canoe and just leave this very moment. I'll fill the backpack with a radio that can air Bandit Rock Channel and a whole case full of Coke, and just go.
See you there?
Wherever there might be,
POET in the GLASS JAR

Ode To Writing

I went for it now, finally. My writing. It has been obsessive in periods, totally apathic in other periods. Each November has been filled with angst, only to top it off with total triumph and pizza by the end of it. I have written when I've been depressed, when I've been drunk, when I've been high. I have written when I couldn't put in words what needed to come out, when I had nothing to say, and when I had too much to say. I have written until my fingers ached, my head and heart were heavy, my imagination swirling away. I have written in word wars. Among people. On trains, cafés, benches. I have typed, I have used charcoal, I have used pens and pencils, even crayons. When I ran out of paper, I wrote on handkerchiefs and coffee filters. Half my novels were written on loose sheets, on the back of envelopes or in the book-book; some even got lost in the laundry room, uncountable others never got written at all.

This is for you, the written word, I salute you.

And in your honor I decided to finally move my writing ahead. To something similar to professional. To something that I one day will be able to hold in my hands, as a finished product. As a result. Something concrete, holding all the abstract in the world.

Today, I accepted a publication offer for my first novel.
A new adventure begins.
POET in the GLASS JAR

Midsummer's, April, And Peace

Just found out that Dead By April are doing a gig thing in Trollhättan (a few miles from here) on July the 28th. No question about it, I'm going! I've been looking around for good tour dates and venues for these guys for ages. Only just found it, thanks to Jessie. Can't wait, even if it'll just be a few songs.
Other than that, yesterday was Midsummer's Eve, everyone was celebrating it heavily. I was sober for once and got home at around 4AM where I finally could stumble into bed. Only after eating some well-earned night meal, of course. I was happily surprised on one occasion, where we all were singing and Vic had his guitar out and stuff, and I requested Jason M'raz, didn't really think about it other than that. But suddenly found myself the only one singing in the room, and the others listening. Wow. One short moment but so definitely worth it. Maybe I'm not as afraid of the stage as I've been thinking? Also got the suggestion (again) to apply for Swedish Idol. Ha, ha. Not that I want to undermine myself or so, but my voice just isn't good enough for that, nor are my competitive nerves. I'll see the jury and faint.
Today is Midsummer's Day. Me and Jessie are turning around the tables and celebrating today as well. Our goal, we decided a few days back, was to make the summer of 2009 even better than that of our legendary summer, that of 2006. "Wow", Jessie said, "That might be quite difficult to beat." But we are definitely trying.
Living back home feels better than I expected. Feels great actually. My mum is her usual charming self which means she doesn't really acknowledge me at all, but Dad is being great. Either way everyone is always out anyway, at work or some place else. It leaves me some space. I really need it. Got my furniture and stuff here on Thursday, still living in cardboard boxes and seemingly unable to find the charcoal for my sheesha, but slowly my room is turning into just that, my room. The net is real slow but it allows for me to blog, keep the street team site up and check my usual sites, as well as keep MSN going. Really my lifesaver. Next week I'll be getting my own internet, so I won't have to sit on Mum and Dad's laptop all the time. I also gotta set up my stationary PC somewhere, I still have to transfer a lot of stuff from it to the external hard drive. Will probably get it over and done with in a jiffy and then unpack it again. I have my darling own laptop by now and it's going to be well used.
Can feel the difference already by living here. Not much to do other than unpack and write, and listen to music. Already got two more chapters down for the novel. Not perhaps that much, but a huge step for me, who has almost been scared of the novels for a long time lately. It's better this way I think. Very peaceful, quiet and inspiring here. A real safeport.
Speaking of.
POET in the GLASS JAR
Happily Street Teaming Again

Packsack

I'm having one of my down days. One of my weird days. When stuff turn against me one second, I'm invisible and the world is meaningless in the next, and everything is hysterically funny in the third. If just I didn't have these peculiar mood swings things'd be fine. It feels quite okay to be moving back home again. It'll at least be the countryside, which is the one place in the world I can actually sleep (and tend to oversleep), and take it easy, and just be calm. I was supposed to be in town to pack and stuff today, I went there, packed half a box, then left. There's something simply so ominous and unpleasant about standing in a half-ready apartment, stuff all over, and just not knowing where to start.
Well, least now I went out and bought some more cardboard boxes (had too much of a saint's conscious to rob the grocery store of their old unused ones), so I should fit the rest of my stuff in there. As always I'm amazed by how much stuff you can gather. And then I keep throwing everything out! Yeah. My dream of living in a packsack isn't quite yet coming through, although I'm still hoping for it to (I'm gonna buy a minivan and tour Europe some day).
Someday, somehow...
Spoke to Elle today, felt nice to renew that old friendship. I bet she's gonna help out in making this summer the best ever - and as Sylvi kindly pointed out, possibly the best YEAR ever. Right now my biggest YAY goes to the fact that the last rent is paid on the flat, so from now on, all money I make this summer, is entirely mine. Minus a few, pretty much harmless bills.
Nothing like rent.
That hopefully means I can save up to go to Canada and work there next year...
CHEERIOS,
POET in the JAR

Lika Osynlig

Jag vill trycka gasen i botten
och köra mot rött ljus
Jag vill försvinna så att alla undrar
var jag håller hus

Jag vill lämna denna gråa håla
bakom mig
Men bakom masken är jag lika grå
Så säg mig

Hej, är jag lika osynlig som dig?
Är jag lika färglös som dig?
Är du lika jävla rädd som mig?
Hej, hej

Jag vill gasa på och lämna denna stad
och detta land
Det måste finnas något marginellt
bättre någonstans

Jag vill lämna allt jag har men ta med mig
allt jag fått
Utan minnena du gav mig hade det nog
aldrig gått

Hej, är jag lika osynlig som dig?
Är jag lika ansiktslös som dig?
Är du lika jävla rädd som mig?
Hej, hej

Låt oss stämpla ut en till minut
Och vandra hem för dagen
Ignorera allt och sticka ut
Och ta en stund i taget
Kanske att man blir mer livfull då
Eller skriver några rader
Kanske att man får tillbaka lite

färg

Hej, är du lika osynlig som mig?
Är du lika glädjelös som mig?
Är du lika jävla rädd som mig?
Säg det till mig

______________________________

Since it's not exactly like me to write stuff in Swedish, like, since ages back in time when my poetic vein first sprung to life; I'm gonna do what I've done earlier and translate it for you. At least roughly. This song came to me when I was driving, late at night, as the best pieces always do. It kind of got to me after that. Hope you guys'll find it interesting as well, even after you've read it in the not-so-sufficent English version, ha ha (I never said I was a professional translator, at least not of poetic thingamabobs. I always translated too freely, my English tutor at the uni used to say). I plan to record it in a jiffy soon as the whole moving business is over and done with. Imagine it. Me on the countryside, my guitar, recording this song. Can't wait.

(I want to step on the gas
and speed towards red light
I want to disappear so that everyone wonders
where I'm at

I want to leave this grey hole
behind me
But behind the mask I'm just as grey
So say to me

Hey, am I just as invisible as you?
Am I just as colorless as you?
Are you just as fucking scared as me?
Hey, hey

I want to speed away and leave this town
And this country
There has to be something marginally
better somewhere

I want to leave all that I have but bring
all that I've received
Without the memories you gave me it probably never
would have worked

Hey, am I just as invisible as you?
Am I just as faceless as you?
Are you just as fucking scared as me?
Hey, hey

Let's chart out another minute
And wander home for the day
Ignore everything and stand out
And take a moment at a time
Maybe you become more lively then
Or write down a few lines
Maybe you retrieve some

color

Hey, are you just as invisible as me?
Are you just as joyless as me?
Are you just as fucking scared as me?
Say that to me)
POET in the GLASS JAR

Build My Wings On The Way Down

And when you kiss me in my neck

How can you know that I'm smiling?

Trust. What is it, really? Another clichéd word to help us stay naive, to help us avoid the idea of selfishness. Somewhere, we're still children, and want to believe in the fairytale, in the perfect endings.

But was there ever a word such as perfect? Am I the only one who keeps getting hit by something that degrades it, as soon as I get even close to the sense of that word...? Maybe the only thing for us to do is to stagger on the border between disaster and utopia, never coming close to either end, no matter how we paint the image of that world in our minds and hearts.

I want to be naive, want to believe. I want to smile because of nothing but a rainbow in the sky, the thought of a castle and a unicorn. I want to be who I used to be, who never bowed to angst, but made my own joy.

Have I based too much of myself on others? All awhile I strived not to, all awhile I tried to stay independent. Yet a word that is spoken or left unuttered can be the difference that makes me fall, can be the blow that strikes me to the ground or elevates me towards the sky.

Have I forgotten the face of my father, as Roland would have put it; have I forgotten what made me survive through the days; do I no longer know what my aims were, what made me lose myself in time?

I want to think I still have it in me, I can still do it. That sometimes you have to take the leap first and build your wings on the way down. That sometimes all you need to get by is find what makes you lose your grasp of time, and entwirl yourself in that, holding on to the moment.

To the long second that is our present.

POET in the GLASS JAR

Crossreferenced from allvoices.com

Your World Of Lies

You left me too many times
for me to give you another chance
And you left me with too many scars
for me to join you in another dance

Yet that's exactly what this is
Dancing around the truth
You'll always dodge my tries
And build your world of lies

You don't know the meaning
of a childish illusion and trance
And you never knew just what
a rainbow hope could enhance

Yet that's exactly what this is
Spellbound by the truth
You'll always dodge my tries
And build your world of lies

I'm naïve to still hope for you
Stubborn and stupid not to let go
Even when wrapped in someone else's arms

I did my best to forget about you
Obviously I affected you so
Even when wrapped in someone else's arms

Closing my eyes, I dream of you
Dreaming was all we ever knew

Yet that's exactly what this is
Dreaming about the truth
You'll always dodge my tries
And build your world of lies

I'll live in my childish illusion
'Til there's something real to salute

~ POET in the GLASS JAR ~

Burn And Break

How come every time I hope
It's a crusted shell
that cracks?

How come
I counterpoint myself
To stop right in my tracks?

I'm still running
You fell behind
And I'm no longer your helping hand
I have a bleeding heart now, to defend

You'd think that every time I'd learn
Edging on what aches

But I was never one to burn
And break

I'm still running
You fell behind
And I'm no longer your helping hand
I have a bleeding heart now, to defend

Before you I never ran
And took every arrow, proud
And every whisper was quiet
And never loud

You fell behind
I ran out of heart
Ran out of time

I'm still running
You fell behind
And I'm no longer your helping hand
I have a bleeding heart now

to defend

_____________________________

Thought a lot about what to name this piece of lyrics, finally settled for the Burn And Break part of it, since none of the chorus seemed to convey the meaning of the song properly. D'you guys have any other ideas? Feel free to share.
POET in the JAR

I Want To Die Beautifully

I read your words
I read them again
I'd forgotten how powerful they were

And what they once meant

I blocked out everything you said
And every word you weighed on your tongue
Carefully, before spilling

I don't think I ever guarded anything so well

I made you a secret
All the hopes I held for you
And locked it away

Did I let my guard fall?

Unexpectedly
Like you first came to me
I stumbled across you again

And remembered

Failing promises and lies
We never knew them as we told them
They're all our dying whispers now
Fading as we hold them

I heard your words
Listened again
Spoke again

And I let my guard down

Let you pierce me through
Again
I want to die beautifully
... again

_____________________________________

This poetic thing has makings to become a song, but I need to set the melody straight first, I'll tag it as both while deciding. Wow-wee, are we making progress? All the song titles I randomly came up with a while ago are springing to life out of nowhere. Hoping it goes on this way.
PS. I have a lot of things on my mind, but nothing I really feel like sharing at the moment. Just know that things are heavy and your dear Poet is an unlucky soul, in many ways. DS.
THE Dear POET Who Is In Many Ways An Unlucky Soul IN THE JAR

Waveride

I'm getting up in just a few hours, and I know I should be sleeping; but I can't seem to make myself. I got good news tonight; and I'm going to ride on that wave for a long time. Everything suddenly seems endurable. And if everything goes well, it won't take longer than two months before I'm meeting with Alev, and another forum friend can be scratched off the list. I love this weird passion to travel that has suddenly emerged in me, planning to use it well...
GREETS,
POET in the JAR

Don't Leave The Path

You made me of lies
When I tried to be honest
With you
And still you questioned me
When I was lost
And I withdrew

Don't leave the path
I set out for you to follow
Don't leave the trail
That's safe for you
That's good for you

But I didn't choose this way to go
You always picked out all of my roads
So I'm leaving safe, leaving fate

You made me of lies
When I tried to be honest
With you
And still you questioned me
When I was lost
And I withdrew

So where d'you want to be?
I'm leaving you with your sorrow
And all that's left of me
I was crushed by you
Thrust by you

You made me of lies
When I tried to be honest with you
And still you questioned me
When I was lost
And I withdrew

I'm not selling second tries
I'm done with all that I've done for you
Don't question me again
I'll soon be lost
I lost my way
With you

I'm leaving safe, leaving fate
Leaving safe
Leaving safe

Leaving trail

_______________________________

An incident that has to do with us moving and all the buzz around it, and mostly my displeasurement about it, spawned into this song. It's been jammed into my head for the better part of the day. There's something about this piece that entices me, and I can't wait to get home and try some stuff out on the guitar that might match it (although to my defense I would rather see John doing that); but I might have to wait until tomorrow since my guitar lacks one of its strings. Strange, it was like that when I got home from Czech and yet no one claims to have touched it. Typical...
Anyways, this'll be the first post I'll cross reference at Allvoices. I discovered after my latest article there that I had gathered some fans of literature and poetry, so it might be interesting to share it there as well. (Either way, most of you don't read what I put there; so to you guys it will probably not be too hard to get over.)
Until next time,
POET in the UTTERLY DEPRESSED yet at least ENTICINGLY CREATIVE JAR

Another Flash

I saw myself dying again.
It was just a flash, just a glimpse, something fast that flickered me by while driving. But it felt so real. I saw it so clearly. Heard myself hit the brakes, saw the car slide across the road. Heard the scraping metal as I crashed. Saw the blood, oozing out of my chest, as the iron pipe from the truck ahead of me pierced my lungs.
Is it such a wonder that I sometimes find it hard to focus on driving, when interruptions like these come along?
Sigh.
As a side note on the good side of things, got another two fans at Allvoices. Seems with every post I make I gain more fans. Something to hold on to that is!
POET in the DELICATE GLASS JAR

Cross Reference

Funny! Just read my way to realizing that it's perfectly OK for me to cross-reference what I write here, with what I write "journalistically" for allvoices.com. So perhaps I will share some of my posts here, there, and vice versa. But for now I'll keep them separate from eachother, or my head will turn into one giant mesh of a mess where everything floats together and becomes vague.
And I just found this really neat paragraph in my book-book which is forcing me into novel land.
See you when I see you!
POET in the GLASS JAR

Suspiciously Innocent

And you whisper, everyone cries sometimes
But you don't know
the nature of this sadness of mine

I don't expect you to see
through my lenses
looking at me

Should I hug you again?
Will it make things worse?
You are half the reason I am this way
You're suspiciously innocent
and I'm hurt

And I falter, everyone falls sometimes
But I don't know
if I'll get up this time

I don't expect you to see
through my lenses
looking at me

Should I hug you again?
Will it make things worse?
You are half the reason I am this way
You're suspiciously innocent
And I'm hurt

And I wonder, do you cry too sometimes?
I wouldn't know
It's not the nature of your state of mind

Tell me whatever did I do to you
For you to pull me in like this
Stroke my hair and give me a kiss
Makebelieve that my eyes are green
Whisper in my ear that I'm worth nothing

Should I hug you again?
Will it make things worse?
You are half the reason I am this way
You're suspiciously innocent
And I'm hurt

You're weighing me down
When you should be lifting me up
I'm complicating things, like I always do
Before I know it I'll have lost you

I'm suspiciously innocent
To you

Iris & Memory

Wow. I open my other, rarely used email account (in fact the one for this site), and there it is. Someone who I don't personally know has stumbled here on Blogger, appreciates my writing, and invites me to write for their journalistic forum. Crazy enough, it's hell late and I'm just really happily surprised to get such praise from someone who doesn't tell me my stuff is "good" because they are friends with me, I accepted the invite. And alas your dear poet has now turned to journalism.
I beg your pardon. My view of journalism.
Which is:
I write whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want. May it be poetry material, may it be random ranting (I am good at that!) or some more serious criticism towards the world and all that inhabits it; whatever I feel like writing there, I will write there.
Also, I will keep that part of writing separate from what I write in here, for now. My favorite place to vent, all time.
If you're curious, you can now find my first "journalistic post", which in truth is like any of my here called Spontaneous Thoughts, "Iris & Memory" at Allvoices.com where you search for my username, which is simply poetinthejar. I would link it directly to you unless I got an internal error every time I tried. Be patient!
The world is waiting for you.
POET in the GLASS JAR

Fluttering Twitter

Alas, my dear fellas, I have taken the long dreaded step towards Twitter and made an account there. Mostly in order to follow Poets of the Fall's updates, but also to have a look at you old fellas, and allow you to have a somewhat look into myself. Although I did doubt there could be any value in updates this short, and not, for example, updates on a blog or a site; it's been sort of fun so far, and I guess we'll simply see how it'll pan out.
So! Peeps, follow me at my fluttering Twitter account, and meet you all there.
PS. Do not ask about the username. Eh... DS.
POET in the GLASS JAR

Photoshoot!

Ok, so straying here. Already it is Friday, but every day so far has felt like a Sunday. Alas! The wonders of vacation! We are about to head out on a little walk, going to Prague tomorrow and then to Bratislava for a forum meeting on Sunday. The actual Sunday, that is. As for now, I am mostly interested in what happens tonight... dressing up to do a photoshoot at a playground near here. Might be fun!
Merry go round, and around, and around...
GREETZ,
POET in the TRAVELLING JAR

In The Fog?

I'll be off for the next approximate 10 days, unless I happen to stray here when I'm gone. Finally getting out of here, even if just for a while. Just not having to go to work for once would be all the break I needed. Now I get to see just a little more of the world again, along with seeing a long time friend, my dearest Last Drop. If you very acutely find that you need me, look in the fog surrounding the bottle of absinthe or in the nearest Czech tattoo studio.
CHEERS,
Poet in the Travelsy Jar
PS. Bit worried about Ryan. Step by step, buddy. DS.

From The Storm

We all have different dreams
Why don't you see?
That your vision of ideal
isn't perfect to me
Let me see the world
and feel

Let me take my time

I'll never be tame
but I just might come out
to eat from your hand

every once in a while

I'll be wild in my dreams
You'll be calm in yours
Maybe sometime we'll collide
And make something beautiful

from the storm

You Nervous Wreck, You Clumsy Doll

The following is an example of the voices in my head, when I feel another down coming over me.

"Not now... not again... think happy thoughts!"
"Happy? Do you really think there's such a thing as happy?"
"If I think happy, I'll feel happy."
"Bullshit. You can't make yourself feel anything. You can't honestly believe that's gonna help you. You're beyond help my dear, take another pink happy pill and imagine there's some good in the world, and that there's some good in you, it doesn't matter like shit anyway; it's just one big illusion."
"I think you are an illusion."
"No one gives a shit what you think. Your every thought is worthless. Of all people in the entire world, why would anyone care more for you?"
"I don't think for the world, I don't write for the world; I write for myself, I gotta get it out of my system. And just maybe someday someone will see it. Will see me."
"No one will see you. You're invisible. And whatever crap words you put on paper might outlive your pathetic short life, but what will that matter, they will be forgotten just as you; and then there'll be nothing left. No one will remember you. You won't matter. You'll be invisible after you die, just as you were invisible all awhile you lived."
"I'm not invisible."
"No one sees you."
"I'm not invisible."
"You have no friends."
"I do!"
"You don't."
"I do..."
"You don't. How could you? No one puts up with you, you nervous wreck, you clumsy doll; you are just taking people's time, no wonder they won't call you or text you, no wonder they sleep with you and dump you. You scare them away, though that would be to flatter you, to make you something more than you ever were..."
"I'm not invisible..."
"Everything you do is a waste, no one notices you, no one thanks you, you are in people's way, you believe you were actually meant for something. Pathetic! There is no meaning to anything, especially nothing that you do, you only dream and imagine it in your head, get real! You're too dreamy, you could live forever inside your poems and words, you're probably gonna die with a one-liner rolling off your tongue, yet none of that is meaningful, it's a waste of time. You wasted time with every breath you took, wasted love with every beat of your ridiculous heart, wasted tears instead of doing something, instead of accomplishing something."
"I have accomplished things."
"Only in your head. That's what they are, and all they'll ever be. Things inside your head. You're pathetic, you're nothing, you're no one. Happy thoughts! How silly. Nothing can save you. Your grand plans, they're nothing but ashes. You're worthless, good for nothing, no one ever wanted you, even when you had the chance you blew it away, you can't even grasp luck if it walzed right in front of you. Admit it, you belong with sadness, you belong with melancholy, you tell yourself you're too damn intelligent for your own good. Bullshit! Were you ever intelligent? You just focus on the wrong things, you do the wrong things at the wrong times, meet the wrong people. You are wrong, you're a nothing, no one will notice you when you finally die, it's gonna be a relief for the people left to be rid of you so you won't try and make them feel, or stop and see, you're wasting their time. Let them live their lives and be happy and you just settle for what you got, paranoia and misery, someone's gotta do that part too..."

The voices die away.
Only silence left.
Fuck.
POET in the Delicate Glass JAR