I watched a movie once,
where this girl keeps ruining her life
as she and her brother walk on a beach he asks her whats going on
and she turns to him and says "Maybe I'm the faller. The one who doesnt get the boy, the one who never gets an A. The one who trips and stumbles and pulls everybody down with her. every family has one. ours must be me."
i hear her say this, and i hear the pain in her voice as she says it,
and i realize that i am the faller.
i ***** up
i cause pain to my family
how can someone who never does anything right even come close to
standing up straight?

My bipolar fantasy is that one day,
I’m going to come home and leave my bipolar at the door,
Scatter it along with muddy boots and raincoats and winter mittens
I have no use for currently,
That I’m going to take it off and enter my house unencumbered.
My bipolar dream is that I’m going to go to bed tonight
Without measuring my sleep,
Wondering if it’s an indication of mania or depression,
If it’s stress or I need medication to push me into a nocturnal daze,
The haze of which will bleed over into daytime.
My bipolar wish is that this illness
That I lug around like a suitcase made of brick
Might lighten in load or unpack itself once in a while,
That it will not brand me as a traveler on a road
Pockmarked with landmines and loneliness.
I wish that this suitcase did not bear the mark of mental illness.
My bipolar life is a story,
One laid out in the lines of swinging,
Of flying and then falling
Before realizing they are often too closely related to tell the difference.
My story is written in the narrow margins between creativity and hospitalization.
Sometimes the two occur together.
My life’s manuscript is forever alternating
Between the way the night sky speaks to me
Or the way the bathroom smells like my blood.
It is being abuzz with electricity and then short circuiting your battery
And not being able to move.
My bipolar song is a tune alternating between grandiosity,
All hail my intelligence and beauty (psych!)
Before falling into apathy and self-loathing.
Sometimes it’s not knowing what version of me I’m going to wake up to in the morning.
My bipolar hope is that the dizzying combo of diet, exercise, and daily medication
Will keep me out of that 1 in 5 number I’ve danced with so perilously,
Keep me off of those bridge ledges and out from empty pill bottles,
Keep me alive in my skin even in this painful reality.
My bipolar fear is that when mania and depression have a love child
And mixed mania runs amuck in its terrible two’s,
The anger will taint the feelings of loved ones.
I fear callous words uttered insouciantly in my own misery,
Slithering from my mouth agonizingly slowly yet too quickly to stop
Might wound those I care for when I do not mean it.
My distress and agitation sometimes equal cranky.
My bipolar prayer is that when energy plus impulsiveness plus danger is no longer
A concept I understand collaborate,
Those around me know this is not who I am.
My mood is a high-flyer, a free-faller, and an everywhere in between,
But that is not my personality.
I am an optimist, a free thinker, creator, compassion giver.
My story is broader than the confines of bipolar.
I am sometimes aflame and others underwater,
But I weather it all with a twisted sense of humor.
I am a person before I am bipolar.

I've turned new leaves
From Brown to Green,
Yellow to Red,
Dust to ash.

A week ago
Was quite warm,
Cold didn't bother
me very much.
Now I shiver,
Not alone without
But without within.

Guess I'm dying.

Not forever,
But for now.
Not a new death,
But a constant one.

That's waiting
I do suppose,
wanting things now.
Expressing fickle desires
Through prose.
But your needs now
Aren't the wants you'll
Have later.
Those are never ones
You plan for.

Snøflakene faller sakte i nattesmørket
Nesten melakolsk faller de
sakte
som om de vet
vet at de kun er en mikroskopisk del av et enormt fellesskap
vet at før eller siden
smelter de
forsvinner ut i intet
og alt de har oppnådd
er å være en liten del
av noe stort
som smelter vekk
uten spor

There is falling
and there's FALLING
and I was good at both
I swear to that completely
I'll swear that under oath
If there's a way to take a tumble
A way to fall on down
Then I'm the best example
I've spent a life time on the ground

First, we'll tackle skating
Couldn't cross and make the turn
I'd get caught and then I'd tumble
It's something I never did quite learn
I was always out there falling
While the others skated by
I could never make the motion
So...I no longer even try

Athletics, you know track and field
High hurdles, running track
It's evident, I couldn't jump
So from track I got the sack
Always had weak ankles
Was always falling down
While most kids shorts were crisp and white
Mine were stained all green and brown

I gave up and then tried camping
Just a tent, the woods and me
I never even got out once
I tripped over a tree
I mean, I fell out in the forest
And yes, I made a sound
I mean if anybody heard that noise
It was me hitting the ground

I'm not much good at anything
You can see that from my past
My body moves  at one speed
My feet just go too fast
I've always been a faller
Falling's the one real thing I do
And the last time that I fell
Was the day, that I met you....

Snøfnuggene faller i tette strømmer
det føles som om de prøver å kvele bakken
som en maske endrer det landskapet
vårt landskap
svøpt i snø
liksom et silkeslør
drapert elegant over moder jords fyldige kurver
slik at skjønnheten forenkles
alikevel er det noe
bare en tanke
som sier at *** nå er vakrere enn noen sinne
det er som om snøen har rafinert henne
min moder jord
svøpt i silkemyk sne
vakrere har *** aldri vært

Hej jag heter Kalle, jag är 17 vårar

och
jag är trött på att tårar faller ner från min kind.
Det hände senast i torsdags morgon i klassrummet när nina skapat ett
instagram konto
som hette kalle balle kalle balle är ful.

Jag tyckte det var töntigt för vi är sjutton år,
men alla andra skrattade så vad ska man göra då ?
Läraren sa inget fast han allting såg
han bara twittra på om något som jag ej kommer ihåg.

Även om dem flesta mobiler är på surr
så hör jag allt twitter som pågår i detta ***.
och jag vet att det mesta inte är om mig
och jag vet att man inte borde bry sig men
jag bryr mig.

och det känns så motsägelsefull
för jag har alltid hört att det är någonting fint i att bry sig
att bry sig,
men nu när jag är större är det som att världen har växt med mig
och nu finns det för mycket att bry sig,
att bry sig om.

Hej jag heter Kalle och jag mår inte bra,
jag får notiser om att det är så ungdomar ska ha det.
Jag sitter i min plats längst bak i klassrummet till vänster,
när jag plötsligt ser en bild,  
jag tror jag ser ett mönster.
här uppifrån som utanför vårt fönster.

för vi är ett *** fullt av instängda fåglar,

det finns svanar som alla anar kommer växa och bli kända som alla vill vara
det finns kråkor som är stolta över att ta andras lycka/ det andra har , och det finns hackspettar
och duvor
gökar
ugglor,
och jag

och jag är rädd att jag är en pingvin eller en struts
jag vet inte om ni vet men av alla 10000 fåglar är just dem de ända som inte kan flyga
och jag tror jag är en pingvin
men kanske är det bra för jag är jag.

I guess I'm just not the type of girl you'd write pretty love songs about.
It's much easier to write about how I'm a strong wind of fabricated concern in your mind,
rather than your golden girl.
How I enchant everyone but you.
How I must do it on purpose,
Because I love the attention.
I love the applause.
I love the lust and your love lost.
But if you read just one chapter of my own book of songs,
You'd see crayon writing that led to you all along,
outlining your salmon voice,
and your coffee eyes,
the kissing of your peachy skin,
my feelings you compromised.
But you needn't sneak to see,
I wish to be a silver spirit
that lives in your sight alone.
I worship you when I'm not on defense.
When you're not on the fence,
Walking tightrope, with me in your right palm,
while desires, goals and worries, doubts and fears,
and your book of scarlet nightmares are all in your left.
Teeter off and lose your footing.
You know I'll hit the ground first.
Soften the fall for you and your words.
Write on free faller.
Let's call it all off.
You pretend to be grey and modest.
You must do it on purpose,
because you know
I hate losing your attention,
I hate your forgotten applause,
I hate my lust for you
and here, your love is lost.
But even now that my stare is fixed
on you and your book
You still won't turn to look
because you don't believe in me
and you don't believe in ghosts.

Pennens krigere
Vi som faller ved sverdet
Men som aldri dør
Våre ansikter blir glemt
Men ei de ord vi skriver
Vi er udødelige
Vi er pennens krigere

Pennens krigere
Vi som kan tape vår frihet
Men som aldri blir dratt bort
Våre ord lyster til opprør
Men vi tyr ei til vold
Vi er uovervinnelige
Vi er pennens krigere

Pennens krigere
Vi som flyr som fugler
Men som er fanget i bur
Våre drømmer er om himmelen
Men de blir lært i lenker
Vi er fanger i vår egen kropp
Vi er pennens krigere

Pennens krigere
Vi er små og store
Men det er ikke stort
Våre ord kan skrives for en
Men gjentas på tusen lepper
Vi er uforutsigbare
Vi er pennens krigere

Pennens krigere
Vi er brødre og søstre
Men ei av samme blod
Våre forskjeller er store
Men vi står alle sammen
Vi er forente
Vi er pennens krigere

Pennens krigere
Vi som søker svar
Men som våger å leve
Våre ord kan vekke lyset
Men bare i vises hånd
Vi er tankens venn
Vi er pennens krigere

Pennens krigere
Vi er helgener for de vise
Men slanger for de tankeløse
Våre ord kan gi sannhet
Men bare for de som ser
Vi er de som åpner øyne
Vi er pennens krigere

Pennens krigere
Vi er forsvarere av våre verdier
Men det er ikke alltid bra
Våre ord kan spre hat
Men bare om kjærlighet blir glemt
Vi er gode og onde
Vi er alle pennens krigere

I’m afraid of heights. But I don’t fear falling. Falling is a freedom that’s never failed to run away from me when I’ve given chase. Falling is the wind in my hair. Clothes ruffling. The pure feeling of exhilaration. Of knowing that there’s still fear under that energy. What am I going to fall into? Or on? Is my body going to hit the pavement? Blood blossoming around me as if an artist spilled a can of paint. And I just happened to fall into it. Except my body will relax. Whatever feelings I had. Whatever thoughts I had leaked out through that pool of blood around me. And in my last moments of comprehension I can tell that it’s darker than I expected it to be.  But it’s still the same. It hasn’t changed any. I always fall into the pavement. It opens its arms as if it were a long lost friend. Calling my name. Making promises of peace and clarity. Promises that no one will be depending on me if I just come into its arms. That I can sleep and not have my dreams plagued with locusts of worry. And grief. And over thinking. So when I found myself falling again. I leaned back into the feeling. I leaned back into the wind relishing the feel of its fingers in my hair. Relishing the feeling of this peace. How could you have peace while you’re falling. I’m not sure anymore. My fear of falling the healthy fear of falling and colliding into something. Has been stripped away. Stripped away like an apple being peeled. Or cheese being grated into finer layers. I don’t fear it. I welcome it. With open arms. And an open. Still intact unscrambled mind. So when I fall through the sky. I only regret. That it’ll be over soon. This addicting feeling of freedom this adrenaline rush. Will be spread out in a bloodied halo around my head. And that’s the only thing I regret. That it can’t last forever. But alas all good things must come to an end. So I close my eyes. Inhale deeply knowing the impact is going to come soon. And hang onto the remnants of this wonderful. Blissful feeling. And then it happens. I hit something. And instead of it being concrete. I find that it’s another body. Another faller I guess. So when I open my eyes. Expect to see blood around me. But instead I see blue eyes. Not just blue eyes. Blue eyes that aren’t glazed over. Blue eyes that weren’t gifted the kiss of death. Eyes that are alive. And are also as confused as I am. Instead of falling into the opened arms of the soft gray pavement I’ve fallen into a person. A person who just tells me. That it isn’t time. To die. To come back. And fall again. That I have something to do and people that need me. And I need to wait for that feeling. I need to wait and stop craving it because I’ve become too addicted to the euphoria of it. It’s time to take my head out of the wind and sky. And come back to earth and live. I actually sigh at this. I sigh in annoyance. And roll my eyes. Because how dare they. That’s why. So hand in hand with this blue eyed stranger I go. Down a road carved and sculpted from the wind. From the stars. And from the ageless eternity of night. To whoever apparently needs me. While I shake trying to stave away the callings and whispers of the wind. Begging me to come and join it. To come back and dance the waltz that never ends. But with my hand in theirs. I’m anchored here and I can’t. So for now I block it out and keep walking. To the light that needs me. Because (apparently). I’ve chosen to live even before this day. And even before this exceptionally weird fall. I chose to live.

So I will.

tunga täcken och dina andetag
bläcket i din hud och dina fina ord
jag glömmer nästan att sängen är dekorerad med mitt blod
fläckar som du låter finnas kvar

du känns som mitt paradis
för ibland vill du hålla om mig
men oftast vill du ha mer
dina händer är för ivriga och blåmärken är bevis
du ser ledsen ut men du fortsätter ändå
jag tror att det är okej för du vill ju ha mig

jag vill gråta
du vill romantisera
du säger ju att jag är fin när jag gråter
även när det är du som orsakat tårarna
gillar du det?
är du stolt?
för mina ögon brinner när dina bara är blå

jag är en saga och du är min prins
det finns ingen krona på ditt huvud
så du låter makten koras i dina händer istället
men det är
                      okej
vi är okej

du greppar hårt och blåser på såren
lämnar mig för ett bloss från cigaretten
jag känner lukten av rök på dina kläder
men jag vet att jag inte ska fråga
aldrig ifrågasätta
för då hade jag kanske sett
att dina ord var mjuka men din säng var hård
att dina löften vara stora men dina lögner var större
jag faller alltid för dig ändå

jag håller dig i handen och allt jag säger är fel
mina kläder är värdelösa
mina ord är ett evigt eko
du varnar och du säger
                                           f ö r l å t
men du vet aldrig vad du ber om ursäkt för

alkohol i vårt blod och mina tårar på din kudde
din själ som låtsas vara trasig
min själ som skriker ditt namn
aldrig någonsin hittar de till varandra igen
för illusionen är förstörd och till **** får jag syn
du är inget mästerverk och jag tycker synd om de andra
de som ser när dina ögon blir mörka
de som ser dina läppar runt en flaska

mörka väggar och du är borta
någon dag kommer du få höra
om natten jag spenderade hos din vän
eller telefonsamtalen från personen du träffade senast för en kvart sen
viskningar på stan och folk som ser igenom dig
du är en kliché
och inget känns okej längre