Completion

How can they know?
Honestly?
They go on and on about how they've found the meaning of life, how suddenly everything seems to be destiny, how your heart is filled by the most glorious of happiness while all those holes that used to eat your soul have been faded away. I'm fine with that. I'm good. There's no problem. Just as long as they don't try to fucking bullshit me that as soon as I find whatever it is that they've found that did it for them, I'm gonna be balooney happy.
That, is, bullshit.
So what? I don't care if becoming a mom, or going to yoga twice a week, or finding the right guy, is what makes it for other people. What makes them complete and fills their fucking holes. They can just walze off and be happy as carrots for all I fucking care.
Just don't tell me how to be happy.
I don't have a fucking button to press.
I don't have a tap to open and pour my sadness out.
If you wanna live, and you wanna go on, and you wanna be all whoopsie-daisies, that's fine and dandy.
But don't make me.
I'll find my own way to do it.
I'm not like you...

My Aces

Here's another poem I wrote for the kids in my class.
It's about me having faith in them, and what they might one day become, despite what the world has decided to do with them.
It's about me, caring more for the moment, and these souls,
than fulfilling my own selfish and stupid dreams.

I can see our students playing around!
I can hear them laughing,
I can hear their sounds.
I wouldn't want these weeks to go completely to waste,
and this day is an appetizer, just of my taste.
The smell of success is here,
and we may not be perfect,
but we're very near...

/Poem to my group

I'm Bound

I can see you leaving me.
I can hear all those voices fading.
I can still smell your skin,
and I remember
how your neck
never tasted.
How your voice
never quite would sound.
All my senses remember you,
and to my senses,
I am bound.
______________________

Wrote this while in class with my students out in the park last week. The assignment we'd given them was to write one sentence for something they could experience with each one of their five senses. This we later wrote nicely and neatly on new sheets, and declared their texts to be poems (which of course offended them hugely, but managed to bring a few scattered embarrassed smiles among their bright little faces). Naturally, had we told them we were going to the park to write poems, they would have chained themselves to the ground and refused to leave the classroom or alternatively the corridors, but this way we made them do it. And hopefully for a small while they could all feel like they'd created something useful, something real. Being real poets for a while (even if they pretend to find all poetry cheesy beyond reason). I love doing assignments like this, it really brings out the best of them, and the best part of it is to see them smile and laugh when they finally get the gist of what we've tricked them into doing. For a while there, they admit it that we've been clever enough to fool them into actually doing something, and somehow we're respected for it.
Strange, that feeling. That we're different than their regular teachers and that we can bring out things in them that they didn't know they had in them themselves. Strange, bringing out that feeling in them that they are different. That they count. Are important. And not a waste.
Too many of these kids think they're for no good. But I've seen so much good in them. I just know they have it in them. And I want to believe it. I want to believe they're good, that we're all good, that we've got that little core inside us that can be appealed to. That can be adressed.
It makes me so angry that my students are always the ones to be blamed for everything that goes even the slightest wrong. Today the janitor gave us the crash course in how much it'd cost to clean up what some of the kids had been scribbling on the walls, and everyone just turned to me, assuming it was my kids having done it. I don't know how you feel about it, but no matter what their regular teachers tell them, they are not dumb enough to scribble down their own names all over the stairs. I'm quite convinced some of the other kids might have done it just to get my kids in trouble, they're not well liked among the others. And still they all just assume it's them that did it. Without even asking them, without asking me. I had full control over the kids for practically all day, I seriously doubt they did it while I was gone for a total of five minutes during the entire day, and while the other English teacher had them in check for me. Or what? Can they perform magic? Can they walk through walls or become invisible?
The kids I teach might be loud and they might be messed up, but they're fucking harmless. No use in blaming them for everything without at least looking into it first. This means tomorrow I gotta do the serious talk with them which I just know is gonna make them even more completely against school, against authority, against being there. Just when I'm starting to get to them, to gain their confidence, gain their trust.
Damn.
Well, anyway, about this poem. Seeing as my kids were doing their very best chasing after experiences with their five senses to write down in their books (watching the bees, swimming in the pond, etcetera), I somehow found time to catch a few fleeting sentences forming this little piece. It tells of how something wonderful and new, something bright, and able to fly, can suddenly flicker and almost fade... just because you know that somehow just the thought won't cut it.
The thoughts won't be enough.
I wish they would.
Wish you could feed off your memories, and your daydreams. Of your imagination. Of your wings, growing out your back, that you never really owned but that nevertheless, for a fragment of just a single second, made you feel like you could rise from the ground for a few inches.
Made you feel something at all.
Made you free of this despair.
The darkness.
Find the fool you used to be, and in the foolishness you used to believe.
For just a moment I'd like to keep to that feeling, stick to it, wanting to grasp it, and clutch it more tightly than ever. Just hold on to it, and believe in all those illusions.
In the dreams.
I wanna believe I can live off the idea.
And I don't wanna see it all go away with a puff of air.
Not again.
I'm too tired to die away.
Too sore in my eyes to cry these days.
I wanna believe that I can live.
For a while.

The Surreal of the Real Deal

Dear online substitute for expensive paper pages and beautiful black ink,
I'm riding on a wave of naivete which I am hoping will carry me on, and out of this time's hollow. I've been way down but I'm starting, slowly, to bounce back up onto my feet. If that means I may daydream, drift off, fly with the flutter of invisible butterflies, and be amazed at the indication of a rainbow in the sky... shouldn't I?
What does it matter if it's all surreal?
If the feeling of something on my face resembling a smile is strange, and I'm not accustomed to it?
I can get used to it. I can make use of it. I can take all these happy thoughts and all these wondrous moments, all these late nights and all these neverending talks, I can take the borderline between dreaming and being awake in the morning and experience them as being born again... I can start to forget how to dwell on the past and how to worry of the future, I can forget all the problems, all the hardships, all the downsides, all the pain, I can just close my eyes for a few seconds imagining it's all gone, gone for a while...
And I can imagine that it's here. And now. Not far away... I can imagine we're actually doing all those things we say that we're doing. I can paint a picture inside my head that when I'm going home, it's going home for real. It's not the substitute I'm going for, it's the real deal.
That I can imagine...
I can imagine for a while.
And I aint gonna listen to that inner voice telling me it's all for nothing.
That voice that's telling me I'm being set up.
That says over and over that I'm a fool... that going in to deep will mean sooner or later you'll drown.
That the good always is followed by pain.
I'll pretend it isn't there.
The funny thing is... I don't have to make an effort.
Already I'm doing it.
Dreaming...
... or am I for once awake?

Romanced To Be

The more I look,
the more I see.
Dream away.
I dream I'm free.
Something.
It's magic.
Reaches for me.
And I stumble.
I'm stunned.
Romanced to be.

Hello, Butterflies

I haven't felt them for quite a while.
But you brought them out,
and made them flicker.
You made them fly.

I haven't felt it for quite some time.
But you brought it to my heart,
and brought it to my eyes.
I can't stop smiling,
and I can't explain why.

I've been walking in eternal night.
Only known wrongs, never rights.
But you brought me light.
Hello, butterflies...

Dust

I hold my head high,
after that phrase of yours.
Dance along with silly tunes,
like a silly animal in a silly cartoon.
I hold my head up high and try to fly,
but you rip my guts out,
time after time.

I walk up straight today,
don't normally walk that way.
Find laughter in the smallest flower,
time passes quickly, hour after hour.
I walk up straight and sing and mime,
but you rip my guts out,
time after time.

I cling on to that straw,
use it for breath, and listen in awe.
Chase the loneliness demons off,
with bunches of garlic and a silly cross.
I cling on to that straw inside my mind,
but you rip my guts out,
time after time.

Leave me here, with your whispers, in the sand.
The dust of your dying promise, in my hand.
The echo of that phrase of yours, as music in my ears.
Close my eyes to the storm, and you're almost here.
To you I've already died,
but all awhile, I kept you alive.

I was too late to live off the things you could buy.
I know you have to heal by leaving me behind.
So I let you rip my guts out,
time after time...

Live To Tell

Who are you?
Your face is not known to me.
Your traits are not familiar.
Your voice I've never listened to.
I don't know who,
now who are you?
You look in the camera,
but you don't see
that I took that picture,
now how can that be?
I don't know you,
now who are you?
My face is not known to you.
You don't know how I used to sing.
You don't know me or anything.
You know me by rumour
as you dance in your ring.
Who are you?
Are you the mirror image
of who I could have been?
Are you the punishment
for the time I sinned?
Your face is not known to me.
Yet you make my life hell.
Hell has its heroes, that may be,
but I'll never live to tell.

Squeeze, Smash, Stomp

Don't know what's up. It's been a good day. Real good. Done what I should. Had some cheesecake. Hooked up with an old childhood friend. Etcetera. And still that fucking phone call is what bothers me.
Why can't I just let it be?
Why is it so hard to move on?
Always late... too late... and... it should be easy. It shouldn't feel like this. It feels like I've been betrayed, like there's no trust left. But I was the one to leave, I was the one to walk out. I don't have any right to say anything. I may have right to grieve what I've lost... but it's nothing but tragic that I can't be happy about other people being happy. Can't be happy that he's happy. Maybe it's because somehow, my stubborn self keeps telling me he's found happiness in someone else. That I wasn't enough to make him happy. And despite myself... my feelings... and despair... this just makes me think, well... I should let him go. For his sake, you know? If this is what it took for him to find joy in life then I should let him...
So why?
Why does it suddenly squeeze my heart? Smash it? Throw it to the ground and have someone stomp on it...?
I don't know.
Mum says, it's not been a whole year yet since I got off the pill, and just now is when I'm starting to become my old self. Why is that? Cause if all this... going back and forth... changing my mind... is all due to that... then I fucking hate them more than ever.
I thought it'd get better. I'd find my path. I'd find my signs. But there aren't any... no signs anywhere... and I'm just more lost, more lost than ever.

I believed that we would always be family. And I still want to believe in it.
I can see why but... you're walking out on me...
I walked out first and now you've had enough... you're leaving me.

Break Us Down

What can I do when you're my only thought?
Even though I was the one
to wave you off
What can I do when you're gone?

See me,
Hear me,
Take me in
the way you used to do
Be me,
Know me,
Break me down,
the way we used to

What can I do, I know I didn't deserve you
Even when I was the one
and you were mine
What meaning is there to it all
when you're gone
I thought you'd stay a little
but I was all wrong

See me,
Hear me,
Take me in
the way you used to do
Be me,
Know me,
Leave me out,
like you are getting used to doing

What can I say more than what flows out
of my veins in words
Is everything not enough for you?
Why is everything black or white
whenever you decide
Is nothing ever grey to you?

See me,
Hear me,
Take me in
like you used to do
Be me,
Know me,
Break us down,
the way we used to

A Thousand Times

You used to tell me everything.
You don't tell me anymore.
I'm listening, trying to read it out,
in between the lines.

I'm fine, like I told you a thousand times,
I'm fine, I'll be okay.
Do what you're already doing good,
leave me be, and walk away.

You used to share your days with me.
You don't have time anymore.
I'm turning back all the hours,
trying to make it count.

I'm fine, like I told you a thousand times,
I'm fine, I'll be okay.
Do what you're already doing good,
leave me be, go make your day.

I'm not much to keep in your heart,
I'm not much for you to remember,
Don't waste your memory on little cold deserted me.

I'm fine, like I told you a thousand times at least
I'm fine, I'm soon okay.
Do what you're already doing good,
leave me in the cold, every day.

Be fine, like I told you a hundred times,
Be good, you'll be okay.
I told you we'd both recover good,
leave me be, go make your day.

Less Than Reason

It's not easy.
Who said it would be?
My mum's solution for all kinds of problems is "everything happens for a reason". Whatever problem you lay before her feet, she immediately starts pondering in detail what the reason for it happening could be. It can drive me totally bonkers! Believe that there's a greater destiny for all you want, but admit it, we humans mess things up perfectly on our own, without any divine intervention. Sometimes it seems to me that people hide behind the "reason" idea so that they can just pass everything on as "meant to be", accept it, and live on.
Am I stupid not to do that?
Sure as hell I'd like to believe it. Sure as hell it'd make everything so much fucking easier. And why?
Let me tell you why.
It's because the idea was invented for all those people out there in the world who aren't grown enough to take responsibility for their own actions. Cause - effect. If I slap you in the face, you will be hurt. If I give you a compliment, you will probably smile. Cause - effect! Nothing else.
But my Mum goes, "well, if you hadn't done that, then this and that wouldn't have happened" and makes all the fucking bad stuff appear as though they paved the way for some mysterious, greater good, some mysterious, greater purpose.
I don't buy it.
If I screw up, I've screwed up, and I gotta face it, gotta deal with it, and have it overwith. I gotta face the anxiety and the regrets.
All you others just try to catch the easy way out...

Zombie

Hear the eagerness in your voice
Telling me everything good
and safe
you've been through
And I laugh along,
but I don't laugh with you...

Hear the pleas inside your voice
Telling me to buy your goods
and have faith
in what you've been through
And I smile along,
but I don't smile with you...

Hear the sorrow in your voice
Telling me it isn't there
It's over,
what I put you through
And I sing along,
but I don't sing with you...

Hear the innocence return to your voice
See that life over death
was your painful choice
And I dance along,
but I don't dance with you...

Pretend along,
that I didn't die with you...

That Comic Strip

I'm dying to do some novelling work, especially since I read through a piece of Raven's making, it feels like it's been ages. I opened up the document the other day and just started to read through it from the start to you know, look at it with fresh eyes, so I know what it's all about. It took me about four pages before I stumbled across something that didn't pan out. It read something like "by the end of my first year there"... while a few chapters after that, it says the main character's been at this place for like three years. Don't even know how to fix that up, three years sounds like such a cliché... but then again, it's gotta be more than just one year or the story doesn't add up... and yet again, it might be best if the reader doesn't get to know at all how long time he's been there?
It's to keep that balance, peeps, between showing, and telling. One of the best tips on writing I ever got, and it was from the literary critic who criticized my manuscript after it'd been accepted by the agency. You gotta keep a nice balance between showing and telling. It makes a better narrative to show the character's emotions and thoughts by how they behave, and act, and speak; than to tell the reader bluntly. You have to involve the reader, she told me, and I've taken that tip to heart.
I know for a fact that I love those kind of stories best as well, so for me, the tip works fine when I'm writing. It's no fun if nothing's left for you to figure out by yourself as a reader. Which also reminds me of something Stephen King said about writing, that as a writer you must know ten times more about everything that's going on, than will end up being mediated to the reader.
Embrace my wisdom, people. Ha, ha... meaning, embrace these other dudes saying something clever which I am nice enough to quote and then half-heartedly try and pass on as my own in a late night blog post...

Another thing.

I know I'm not the one to pass judgment. And I know I'm not really entitled to react in certain ways when certain people act in certain ways. But sometimes... damn. I thought it'd be good enough to be honest. And I thought people'd be honest with me. Also... I didn't think it'd hurt this much. Guess I've learned my lesson by now... guess it's all fair by now.
Really... feels like I've been thrown right back into my old self. And I don't think it's just because of this, I think it's all the stuff that's been going on lately. Feels like there's no use in trusting anyone, and that I don't really deserve to be happy. I'm like that guy in that comic strip who's sitting on this nice little meadow, with flowers and bunnies and the sun shining and all, and then you get to see the inside of his head, and there it's all in black and in darkness and full of monsters... yeah. That's me in a nutshell right now and I dunno what to do about it, except piling up work allover myself so that there's something I can hide underneath... somewhere I can go.

What bugs me is this... that little thing... I know it's not much, but ... it made the world of a difference to me. I spent all last night feeling anxious about it, dwelling about it, I mean, I had a really nice time with my friends, it wasn't that... just that in my mind I was someplace else. Somewhere in the dark depths of me, that hole in me, just pondering. And wondering. And all awhile he... and... damn! I want him to be happy... but somehow, unexplainably, I'm scared to death this will lead to something, that he'll... that he'll... that it'll evolve, that it'll come to something more than what we ever had. And that's when I'll go back to being my old usual invisible self. My old indifferent self. Where all the flowers, and all the sunshine, and the bunnies, and the meadow, won't matter.

Cause I'll only see the monsters.

What's wrong with me? Why can't I just be happy about stuff? There are so many things to be happy about in my life right now, and still I'm always, constantly, unhappy, things I do cause me to laugh for a while, but the dark undertone is still there.

Friends, don't listen too hard on me on this, because these are problems I've had all my life, and I'm not saying I don't notice you. You guys make it endurable, and more than that. Don't know what I'd do without you, really... I'm glad you keep your faith in me at least.

Damn I feel egoistic... allright. Gonna shut up about my own problems now and let's talk about something more important and good for the common cause.

...

...

... so... what's up?