JRhein - Hello Poetry

Ich wache auf in einem Zimmer, das nicht ganz meins ist, my hoodie ligt over de stoel, als wäre ich schon länger hier. Haar moeder roept „Frühstück“ aus der Küche and I freeze like ga ik nu oder bleib ich hier Ich komme rein und lächle leise „Guten Morgen“ a bit too slow Haar vader knikt und sagt hello und ich denk okay, dit gaat zo Wir reden halb Deutsch, halb Englisch, halb Nederlands ik spring einfach zwischen allem hin und her Ein Satz beginnt ganz ruhig auf Deutsch und endet irgendwo in the air „Wil je koffie“ yes please danke „Suiker ook“ ja just a bit Ich lache immer eine Sekunde zu spät maar somehow I still fit Sie sagen nichts, wenn ich stolpere geen blik die zegt je bent fout Nur kleine Witze, warm und leicht und ein Platz für mich, ganz vertraut Ich habe tausend kleine Kämpfe gehabt mit woorden, mit Mut, met mij Maar hier hoef ik niet perfect te zijn hier laten ze me vrij Soms vergeet ik een woord und wechsel schnell ins English rein Und ihre moeder zegt „Ist schon gut“ und lächelt so, als wär das fein Am Tisch sind drei Sprachen zuhause en ik zit daar ergens tussenin Niet helemaal van vroeger maar ook niet meer alleen Und vielleicht ist das genug für jetzt kein großes Ziel, kein fester Plan Nur dieses leise Gefühl beim Frühstück dat ik misschien hier blijven kan

0

Apr 11

Apr 11, 2026 at 4:45 AM UTC

Halb Deutsch, halb Englisch, halb Nederlands

Ich wache auf in einem Zimmer, das nicht ganz meins ist, my hoodie ligt over de stoel, als wäre ich schon länger hier. Haar moeder roept „Frühstück“ aus der Küche and I freeze like ga ik nu oder bleib ich hier Ich komme rein und lächle leise „Guten Morgen“ a bit too slow Haar vader knikt und sagt hello und ich denk okay, dit gaat zo Wir reden halb Deutsch, halb Englisch, halb Nederlands ik spring einfach zwischen allem hin und her Ein Satz beginnt ganz ruhig auf Deutsch und endet irgendwo in the air „Wil je koffie“ yes please danke „Suiker ook“ ja just a bit Ich lache immer eine Sekunde zu spät maar somehow I still fit Sie sagen nichts, wenn ich stolpere geen blik die zegt je bent fout Nur kleine Witze, warm und leicht und ein Platz für mich, ganz vertraut Ich habe tausend kleine Kämpfe gehabt mit woorden, mit Mut, met mij Maar hier hoef ik niet perfect te zijn hier laten ze me vrij Soms vergeet ik een woord und wechsel schnell ins English rein Und ihre moeder zegt „Ist schon gut“ und lächelt so, als wär das fein Am Tisch sind drei Sprachen zuhause en ik zit daar ergens tussenin Niet helemaal van vroeger maar ook niet meer alleen Und vielleicht ist das genug für jetzt kein großes Ziel, kein fester Plan Nur dieses leise Gefühl beim Frühstück dat ik misschien hier blijven kan

36

I wake up in the same old room, the air is thick and still. The morning doesn’t ask me much, just if I have the will. They tell me that I’m still too young, like time is on my side. But I feel like I’ve fought a thousand wars with nowhere left to hide. I’ve won enough to keep me here, but not enough to heal. Some victories don’t feel like wins, they just teach you how to feel. The mirror knows the shape I wear, but not who I once was. My eyes look older than my years, like they’ve seen too much because I carry scars you cannot see, they sit beneath my skin. A quiet proof of every fight I somehow lived within. I speak less now, I hear it all, but nothing settles in. The voices feel so far away, like echoes wearing thin. I tell myself it will move on, but I don’t think it’s true. And somewhere deep inside my chest, it all comes back to you. If I could choose another path, I don’t know what I’d do

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Apr 11

Apr 11, 2026 at 4:36 AM UTC

The Air is Thick

I wake up in the same old room, the air is thick and still. The morning doesn’t ask me much, just if I have the will. They tell me that I’m still too young, like time is on my side. But I feel like I’ve fought a thousand wars with nowhere left to hide. I’ve won enough to keep me here, but not enough to heal. Some victories don’t feel like wins, they just teach you how to feel. The mirror knows the shape I wear, but not who I once was. My eyes look older than my years, like they’ve seen too much because I carry scars you cannot see, they sit beneath my skin. A quiet proof of every fight I somehow lived within. I speak less now, I hear it all, but nothing settles in. The voices feel so far away, like echoes wearing thin. I tell myself it will move on, but I don’t think it’s true. And somewhere deep inside my chest, it all comes back to you. If I could choose another path, I don’t know what I’d do

30

Ich sitze am Tisch und höre zu. Alle sprechen schnell Deutsch. Ich verstehe ein paar Wörter, aber nicht alles. Ich nicke oft und sage: „Ja, genau“ oder „Ah, okay.“ Manchmal passt es, manchmal nicht. Eine Person erzählt etwas Langes. Alle lachen. Ich lache auch, aber ich weiß nicht warum. In meinem Kopf denke ich auf Englisch: “What did they just say?” Aber ich frage nicht. Ich will nicht stören. Ich baue mir meine eigene Geschichte. Vielleicht sprechen sie über Arbeit. Oder über das Wochenende. Oder über jemanden, den ich nicht kenne. Ich fühle mich ein bisschen wie ein Schauspieler. Ich spiele die Rolle von jemandem, der alles versteht. Am Ende sage ich: „Das war interessant.“ Und alle nicken. Auf dem Weg nach Hause denke ich: Nächstes Mal frage ich mehr. Nächstes Mal verstehe ich besser.

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Apr 11

Apr 11, 2026 at 4:31 AM UTC

Ein Schauspieler.

Ich sitze am Tisch und höre zu. Alle sprechen schnell Deutsch. Ich verstehe ein paar Wörter, aber nicht alles. Ich nicke oft und sage: „Ja, genau“ oder „Ah, okay.“ Manchmal passt es, manchmal nicht. Eine Person erzählt etwas Langes. Alle lachen. Ich lache auch, aber ich weiß nicht warum. In meinem Kopf denke ich auf Englisch: “What did they just say?” Aber ich frage nicht. Ich will nicht stören. Ich baue mir meine eigene Geschichte. Vielleicht sprechen sie über Arbeit. Oder über das Wochenende. Oder über jemanden, den ich nicht kenne. Ich fühle mich ein bisschen wie ein Schauspieler. Ich spiele die Rolle von jemandem, der alles versteht. Am Ende sage ich: „Das war interessant.“ Und alle nicken. Auf dem Weg nach Hause denke ich: Nächstes Mal frage ich mehr. Nächstes Mal verstehe ich besser.

29

It’s been eight hundred twenty-one days Since that day took you away One hundred seventeen weeks and some days Since that day took you away I count it sometimes without meaning to As if time could be measured into understanding As if numbers could soften what remains Since you’ve been gone, I keep moving I learn new languages, new words for the same silence I help children, guide them through small worlds Where things still make sense I study, I read, I build something that looks like a future I do everything I am supposed to do And still I mourn you I walk through days like I belong in them I answer when they ask how I am I say I’m fine I say what fits I say what keeps things from breaking Since you’ve been gone, I can do what I want I can go anywhere I choose I can sit in rooms full of voices and laughter But nothing, I said nothing, removes these truths ’Cause nothing replaces Nothing replaces you It’s been so long and still not long at all Like time learned to stretch without healing Everything continues forward But I remain there In a moment that never finished They tell me I am doing well That I am growing, becoming, improving They see the effort, the movement, the progress They do not see the weight that stays Because I can learn every language And still not find the words I can help every child And still feel the absence I can study, build, and move through every day And still I mourn you Eight hundred twenty-one days One hundred seventeen weeks and some days And still nothing replaces nothing replaces you

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Apr 2

Apr 2, 2026 at 9:44 AM UTC

Eight Hundred Twenty-One Days

It’s been eight hundred twenty-one days Since that day took you away One hundred seventeen weeks and some days Since that day took you away I count it sometimes without meaning to As if time could be measured into understanding As if numbers could soften what remains Since you’ve been gone, I keep moving I learn new languages, new words for the same silence I help children, guide them through small worlds Where things still make sense I study, I read, I build something that looks like a future I do everything I am supposed to do And still I mourn you I walk through days like I belong in them I answer when they ask how I am I say I’m fine I say what fits I say what keeps things from breaking Since you’ve been gone, I can do what I want I can go anywhere I choose I can sit in rooms full of voices and laughter But nothing, I said nothing, removes these truths ’Cause nothing replaces Nothing replaces you It’s been so long and still not long at all Like time learned to stretch without healing Everything continues forward But I remain there In a moment that never finished They tell me I am doing well That I am growing, becoming, improving They see the effort, the movement, the progress They do not see the weight that stays Because I can learn every language And still not find the words I can help every child And still feel the absence I can study, build, and move through every day And still I mourn you Eight hundred twenty-one days One hundred seventeen weeks and some days And still nothing replaces nothing replaces you

47

They asked me how I was as required at the beginning of all conversations and I understood too late that the question had already been answered before it reached me so when I spoke it was an error in procedure I said I have not been well I said there are thoughts that repeat themselves without permission that remain longer than they should I did not raise my voice I did not dramatize I simply submitted the truth in its unedited form there was a pause which was not recorded and then acknowledgment without reception he said he understood which in practice meant the matter was closed we moved on to acceptable subjects places plans later always later and I followed because there was no alternative path he left soon after not abruptly not in violation of any rule just at the appropriate time and afterward I learned through indirect channels through careful phrasing through the administrative language of friendship that I had exceeded an unspoken threshold “a bit much” “heavy” “not always the vibe” these are not accusations they are classifications and they are sufficient to determine placement therapy was mentioned once not as a solution but as a relocation as if there exists a designated office for thoughts like mine where they can be processed without disrupting the general flow I have not gone not because I refuse but because the act itself requires a certain strength a capacity for initiation which I seem to have misplaced or never possessed and so the matter remains unfiled circulating internally without resolution I have since adjusted my responses to align with expectations “How are you?” receives “I’m good” this is considered correct this produces continuity invitations remain intact no one leaves early no one makes note and yet there persists a secondary awareness that honesty must be scheduled contained or redirected to institutions equipped to absorb it I consider whether friendship requires this translation whether truth must always be reduced to remain admissible or whether the failure lies with me in my inability to convert experience into something lighter more portable more easily ignored there is no conclusion only a gradual understanding that inclusion and accuracy rarely occupy the same space and that for now I lack the strength to insist on both

0

Apr 2

Apr 2, 2026 at 9:39 AM UTC

How are you?

They asked me how I was as required at the beginning of all conversations and I understood too late that the question had already been answered before it reached me so when I spoke it was an error in procedure I said I have not been well I said there are thoughts that repeat themselves without permission that remain longer than they should I did not raise my voice I did not dramatize I simply submitted the truth in its unedited form there was a pause which was not recorded and then acknowledgment without reception he said he understood which in practice meant the matter was closed we moved on to acceptable subjects places plans later always later and I followed because there was no alternative path he left soon after not abruptly not in violation of any rule just at the appropriate time and afterward I learned through indirect channels through careful phrasing through the administrative language of friendship that I had exceeded an unspoken threshold “a bit much” “heavy” “not always the vibe” these are not accusations they are classifications and they are sufficient to determine placement therapy was mentioned once not as a solution but as a relocation as if there exists a designated office for thoughts like mine where they can be processed without disrupting the general flow I have not gone not because I refuse but because the act itself requires a certain strength a capacity for initiation which I seem to have misplaced or never possessed and so the matter remains unfiled circulating internally without resolution I have since adjusted my responses to align with expectations “How are you?” receives “I’m good” this is considered correct this produces continuity invitations remain intact no one leaves early no one makes note and yet there persists a secondary awareness that honesty must be scheduled contained or redirected to institutions equipped to absorb it I consider whether friendship requires this translation whether truth must always be reduced to remain admissible or whether the failure lies with me in my inability to convert experience into something lighter more portable more easily ignored there is no conclusion only a gradual understanding that inclusion and accuracy rarely occupy the same space and that for now I lack the strength to insist on both

114

It is so nice It is so nice It is so nice It is so nice It is so nice to drift away And set aside the weight of the day It is so nice to drift away And not be asked to explain It is so nice to lie back And watch the sky forget its shape It is so nice to lie back And let the hours loosen their grip It is so nice It is so nice It is so nice It is so nice It is so nice to feel light So light you almost disappear It is so nice to feel light So light no one calls your name Somewhere a clock keeps ticking But not for you, not right now Somewhere a list is waiting But it cannot find you here Oh, I wish I were a breeze Unregistered, uncontained I would move through open windows And never be written down Or maybe just a quiet bird Floating above the noise Keeping close to the sun With no reason to return It is so nice to drift away So nice to drift away It is so nice to drift away So nice to drift away It is so nice to be nowhere in particular and still feel exactly where you should be.

0

Apr 2

Apr 2, 2026 at 7:44 AM UTC

It is so Nice

It is so nice It is so nice It is so nice It is so nice It is so nice to drift away And set aside the weight of the day It is so nice to drift away And not be asked to explain It is so nice to lie back And watch the sky forget its shape It is so nice to lie back And let the hours loosen their grip It is so nice It is so nice It is so nice It is so nice It is so nice to feel light So light you almost disappear It is so nice to feel light So light no one calls your name Somewhere a clock keeps ticking But not for you, not right now Somewhere a list is waiting But it cannot find you here Oh, I wish I were a breeze Unregistered, uncontained I would move through open windows And never be written down Or maybe just a quiet bird Floating above the noise Keeping close to the sun With no reason to return It is so nice to drift away So nice to drift away It is so nice to drift away So nice to drift away It is so nice to be nowhere in particular and still feel exactly where you should be.

40

It began, as these things often do, without an event. There was no refusal, no closed door, no sentence that could be quoted later as evidence. Only a rearrangement. The plans existed, but not in a form that could be entered. They floated between names— Eric, perhaps a concert, later, maybe— always later— as if time itself had become conditional. I was not uninvited. That would have been clear. I was simply not located within the structure. Previously, I had spoken. This, I now understand, was an administrative error. I had submitted something— a confession, heavy, improperly formatted— to an office that does not process such documents. No rejection was issued. Only silence, which is the preferred method of correction. Since then, all communication has acquired a certain politeness. Every sentence contains an exit. Every invitation, a clause of withdrawal. You can come— (though it is not required) It depends— (though nothing depends on you) We will see— (though nothing will be seen) I have adjusted accordingly. I now respond in the same language. I would be happy to join, I write, though it is understandable if my presence is unnecessary. This is considered appropriate. It demonstrates awareness of my position within the system. There is no hostility. This is important. Hostility would imply intention. What exists instead is a quiet redistribution of proximity. I remain known, but no longer included in the calculations. Sometimes I suspect that nothing has changed. That the others move as they always have, freely, without design, and that it is I who has been reclassified— not removed, but rendered irrelevant to the outcome. In any case, the result is efficient. No one has to say no. And I have learned to leave before arrival.

0

Apr 2

Apr 2, 2026 at 5:27 AM UTC

The Invitation

It began, as these things often do, without an event. There was no refusal, no closed door, no sentence that could be quoted later as evidence. Only a rearrangement. The plans existed, but not in a form that could be entered. They floated between names— Eric, perhaps a concert, later, maybe— always later— as if time itself had become conditional. I was not uninvited. That would have been clear. I was simply not located within the structure. Previously, I had spoken. This, I now understand, was an administrative error. I had submitted something— a confession, heavy, improperly formatted— to an office that does not process such documents. No rejection was issued. Only silence, which is the preferred method of correction. Since then, all communication has acquired a certain politeness. Every sentence contains an exit. Every invitation, a clause of withdrawal. You can come— (though it is not required) It depends— (though nothing depends on you) We will see— (though nothing will be seen) I have adjusted accordingly. I now respond in the same language. I would be happy to join, I write, though it is understandable if my presence is unnecessary. This is considered appropriate. It demonstrates awareness of my position within the system. There is no hostility. This is important. Hostility would imply intention. What exists instead is a quiet redistribution of proximity. I remain known, but no longer included in the calculations. Sometimes I suspect that nothing has changed. That the others move as they always have, freely, without design, and that it is I who has been reclassified— not removed, but rendered irrelevant to the outcome. In any case, the result is efficient. No one has to say no. And I have learned to leave before arrival.

77

If you are a liar Fine But do not tell the same lie twice

0

Mar 31

Mar 31, 2026 at 4:33 PM UTC

Liar

If you are a liar Fine But do not tell the same lie twice

3

Are the Gods punishing me for my indulgences, or do my mistakes simply bear their own consequences? Am I punishing myself or is there something greater at work? Maybe it is both. Maybe it is neither. Maybe no one is at fault just circumstance unfolding as it does. Or maybe this is nothing more than the weight of my own gluttony and ignorance.

0

Mar 31

Mar 31, 2026 at 9:43 AM UTC

Are They?

Are the Gods punishing me for my indulgences, or do my mistakes simply bear their own consequences? Am I punishing myself or is there something greater at work? Maybe it is both. Maybe it is neither. Maybe no one is at fault just circumstance unfolding as it does. Or maybe this is nothing more than the weight of my own gluttony and ignorance.

11

I stand in de stat, but I don’t feel inside. I speak, but no one hears. Ich stehe im stat, doch ich gehöre nicht. Meine Stimme bleibt leer. Ik sta in de stat, maar ik voel geen plaats. Mijn stem gaat verloren. Three stemmen. Drie vormen. Drei systemen. One stilte. I say: Belonging must be earned. Ich sage: Zugehörigkeit kommt von ordnung. Ik zeg: Het komt van samen zijn. But de woorden breek. Die woorden breken. The words break. Because I build alone. Weil ich allein baue. Omdat ik alleen bouw. And alone… niemand hoort. So I ask Who belongs? Wer gehört? Wie hoort? Silence does not answer. Struktur does. Wi bouw de stat. Niet ik. Niet du. Niet één stem. Wi bouw met orde en relatie. Wi bouw met macht en vertrouwen. Wi bouw, en in dat bouw ontstaat plaats. Not from grens. Nicht von regel allein. Niet van naam. But from samen. I build… Ich baue… Ik bouw… Wi bouw. And in that moment the stemmen align. We are not the same. Wir sind nicht gleich. Wij zijn niet hetzelfde. But we are verstaan. Wi spreek anders maar wi begrijp. Wi bouw. Dus wi hoort.

0

Mar 31

Mar 31, 2026 at 9:33 AM UTC

Wi Hoort (We Belong)

I stand in de stat, but I don’t feel inside. I speak, but no one hears. Ich stehe im stat, doch ich gehöre nicht. Meine Stimme bleibt leer. Ik sta in de stat, maar ik voel geen plaats. Mijn stem gaat verloren. Three stemmen. Drie vormen. Drei systemen. One stilte. I say: Belonging must be earned. Ich sage: Zugehörigkeit kommt von ordnung. Ik zeg: Het komt van samen zijn. But de woorden breek. Die woorden breken. The words break. Because I build alone. Weil ich allein baue. Omdat ik alleen bouw. And alone… niemand hoort. So I ask Who belongs? Wer gehört? Wie hoort? Silence does not answer. Struktur does. Wi bouw de stat. Niet ik. Niet du. Niet één stem. Wi bouw met orde en relatie. Wi bouw met macht en vertrouwen. Wi bouw, en in dat bouw ontstaat plaats. Not from grens. Nicht von regel allein. Niet van naam. But from samen. I build… Ich baue… Ik bouw… Wi bouw. And in that moment the stemmen align. We are not the same. Wir sind nicht gleich. Wij zijn niet hetzelfde. But we are verstaan. Wi spreek anders maar wi begrijp. Wi bouw. Dus wi hoort.

60